NOTES  OF  A  WAR  CORRESPONDENT 


At  the  front  in  Manchuria 


NOTES  OF  A  WAR 
CORRESPONDENT 


BY 

RICHARD   HARDING   DAVIS 


ILLUSTRATED 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK:::::::::::::::::::::::::i9n 


COPYRIGHT,  1897,  BY 
HARPER  &  BROTHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1898, 1900, 1910,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Stack 
Annex 


'O  1 


CONTENTS 

THE  CUBAN-SPANISH  WAR — 

THE  DEATH  OF  RODRIGUEZ    . 


THE  GREEK-TURKISH  WAR — 

THE  BATTLE  OF  VELESTINOS 17 

THE  SPANISH-AMERICAN  WAR — 

I.    THE  ROUGH  RIDERS  AT  GUASIMAS     .  45 

II.    THE  BATTLE  OF  SAN  JUAN  HILL  .    .  77 

III.  THE  TAKING  OF  COAMO 101 

IV.  THE  PASSING  OF  SAN  JUAN  HILL      .  113 

THE  SOUTH  AFRICAN  WAR — 

I.    WITH  BULLER'S  COLUMN 137 

II.    THE  RELIEF  OF  LADYSMITH      .    .    .  160 

III.    THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  THE  BATTLE  186 


Contents 

PACE 

THE  JAPANESE-RUSSIAN  WAR — 

BATTLES  I  Dm  NOT  SEE 213 


237 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

At  the  front  in  Manchuria Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

The  death  of  Rodriguez 10 

A  mountain  battery  at  Velestinos 24 

Firing  from  the  trenches  at  Velestinos 28 

Wounded  Rough  Riders  coming  over  the  hill  at  Sibo- 
ney.  Head  of  column  of  Second  Infantry  going 
to  support  the  Rough  Riders,  June  24th  ...  68 

Grimes's  battery  at  El  Poso 86 

Officers  watching  the  artillery  play  on  Coamo  .    .    .    102 

Rough  Riders  in  the  trenches ) 

The  same  spot  as  it  appears  to-day ) 

"Tommies"  seeking  shelter  from  "Long  Tom"  at 

Ladysmith 180 

President  Steyn  on  his  way  to  Sand  River  battle  .     .     198 
War  correspondents  in  Manchuria 220 

The  component  parts  of  the  Preston  cooking  kit    .  } 
German  Army  cooking  kit  after  use  in  five  cam-   >    258 
paigns ) 


THE  CUBAN-SPANISH  WAR 


THE  DEATH  OF  RODRIGUEZ* 

ADOLFO  RODRIGUEZ  was  the  only  son  of 
a  Cuban  farmer,  who  lived  nine  miles  out- 
side of  Santa  Clara,  beyond  the  hills  that  surround 
that  city  to  the  north. 

When  the  revolution  in  Cuba  broke  out  young 
Rodriguez  joined  the  insurgents,  leaving  his  father 
and  mother  and  two  sisters  at  the  farm.  He  was 
taken,  in  December  of  1896,  by  a  force  of  the 
Guardia  Civile,  the  corps  d'elite  of  the  Spanish 
army,  and  defended  himself  when  they  tried  to 
capture  him,  wounding  three  of  them  with  his 
machete. 

He  was  tried  by  a  military  court  for  bearing 
arms  against  the  government,  and  sentenced  to  be 
shot  by  a  fusillade  some  morning  before  sunrise. 

Previous  to  execution  he  was  confined  in  the 
military  prison  of  Santa  Clara  with  thirty  other 
insurgents,  all  of  whom  were  sentenced  to  be  shot, 
one  after  the  other,  on  mornings  following  the 
execution  of  Rodriguez. 

*From  "A  Year  from  a  Reporter's  Note  Book,"  copyright,  1897, 
by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

3 


The  Death  of  Rodriguez 

His  execution  took  place  the  morning  of  the 
of  January,  1897,  at  a  place  a  half-mile  dis- 
tant from  the  city,  on  the  great  plain  that  stretches 
from  the  forts  out  to  the  hills,  beyond  which  Rod- 
riguez had  lived  for  nineteen  years.  At  the  time 
of  his  death  he  was  twenty  years  old. 

I  witnessed  his  execution,  and  what  follows 
is  an  account  of  the  way  he  went  to  his  death. 
The  young  man's  friends  could  not  be  present,  for 
it  was  impossible  for  them  to  show  themselves  in 
that  crowd  and  that  place  with  wisdom  or  with- 
out distress,  and  I  like  to  think  that,  although 
Rodriguez  could  not  know  it,  there  was  one  per- 
son present  when  he  died  who  felt  keenly  for  him, 
and  who  was  a  sympathetic  though  unwilling  spec- 
tator. 

There  had  been  a  full  moon  the  night  preceding 
the  execution,  and  when  the  squad  of  soldiers 
marched  from  town  it  was  still  shining  brightly 
through  the  mists.  It  lighted  a  plain  two  miles 
in  extent,  broken  by  ridges  and  gullies  and  covered 
with  thick,  high  grass,  and  with  bunches  of  cactus 
and  palmetto.  In  the  hollow  of  the  ridges  the 
mist  lay  like  broad  lakes  of  water,  and  on  one  side 
of  the  plain  stood  the  walls  of  the  old  town.  On 
the  other  rose  hills  covered  with  royal  palms  that 
showed  white  in  the  moonlight,  like  hundreds 

4 


The  Death  of  Rodriguez 

of  marble  columns.  A  line  of  tiny  camp-fires  that 
the  sentries  had  built  during  the  night  stretched 
between  the  forts  at  regular  intervals  and  burned 
clearly. 

But  as  the  light  grew  stronger  and  the  moonlight 
faded  these  were  stamped  out,  and  when  the  sol- 
diers came  in  force  the  moon  was  a  white  ball  in 
the  sky,  without  radiance,  the  fires  had  sunk  to 
ashes,  and  the  sun  had  not  yet  risen. 

So  even  when  the  men  were  formed  into  three 
sides  of  a  hollow  square,  they  were  scarcely  able 
to  distinguish  one  another  in  the  uncertain  light 
of  the  morning. 

There  were  about  three  hundred  soldiers  in  the 
formation.  They  belonged  to  the  volunteers,  and 
they  deployed  upon  the  plain  with  their  band  in 
front  playing  a  jaunty  quickstep,  while  their  offi- 
cers galloped  from  one  side  to  the  other  through 
the  grass,  seeking  a  suitable  place  for  the  exe- 
cution. Oustide  the  line  the  band  still  played 
merrily. 

A  few  men  and  boys,  who  had  been  dragged 
out  of  their  beds  by  the  music,  moved  about 
the  ridges  behind  the  soldiers,  half-clothed,  un- 
shaven, sleepy-eyed,  yawning,  stretching  them- 
selves nervously  and  shivering  in  the  cool,  damp 
air  of  the  morning. 

5 


The  Death  of  Rodriguez 

Either  owing  to  discipline  or  on  account  of  the 
nature  of  their  errand,  or  because  the  men  were 
still  but  half  awake,  there  was  no  talking  in  the 
ranks,  and  the  soldiers  stood  motionless,  leaning 
on  their  rifles,  with  their  backs  turned  to  the  town, 
looking  out  across  the  plain  to  the  hills. 

The  men  in  the  crowd  behind  them  were  also 
grimly  silent.  They  knew  that  whatever  they 
might  say  would  be  twisted  into  a  word  of  sym- 
pathy for  the  condemned  man  or  a  protest  against 
the  government.  So  no  one  spoke;  even  the 
officers  gave  their  orders  in  gruff  whispers,  and 
the  men  in  the  crowd  did  not  mix  together,  but 
looked  suspiciously  at  one  another  and  kept  apart. 

As  the  light  increased  a  mass  of  people  came 
hurrying  from  the  town  with  two  black  figures 
leading  them,  and  the  soldiers  drew  up  at  atten- 
tion, and  part  of  the  double  line  fell  back  and 
left  an  opening  in  the  square. 

With  us  a  condemned  man  walks  only  the  short 
distance  from  his  cell  to  the  scaffold  or  the  electric 
chair,  shielded  from  sight  by  the  prison  walls,  and 
it  often  occurs  even  then  that  the  short  journey  is 
too  much  for  his  strength  and  courage. 

But  the  Spaniards  on  this  morning  made  the 
prisoner  walk  for  over  a  half-mile  across  the  broken 
surface  of  the  fields.  I  expected  to  find  the  man, 

6 


The  Death  of  Rodriguez 

no  matter  what  his  strength  at  other  times  might 
be,  stumbling  and  faltering  on  this  cruel  journey; 
but  as  he  came  nearer  I  saw  that  he  led  all  the 
others,  that  the  priests  on  either  side  of  him  were 
taking  two  steps  to  his  one,  and  that  they  were 
tripping  on  their  gowns  and  stumbling  over  the 
hollows  in  their  efforts  to  keep  pace  with  him  as 
he  walked,  erect  and  soldierly,  at  a  quick  step  in 
advance  of  them. 

He  had  a  handsome,  gentle  face  of  the  peasant 
type,  a  light,  pointed  beard,  great  wistful  eyes, 
and  a  mass  of  curly  black  hair.  He  was  shock- 
ingly young  for  such  a  sacrifice,  and  looked  more 
like  a  Neapolitan  than  a  Cuban.  You  could 
imagine  him  sitting  on  the  quay  at  Naples  or 
Genoa  lolling  in  the  sun  and  showing  his  white 
teeth  when  he  laughed.  Around  his  neck,  hang- 
ing outside  his  linen  blouse,  he  wore  a  new 
scapular. 

It  seems  a  petty  thing  to  have  been  pleased  with 
at  such  a  time,  but  I  confess  to  have  felt  a  thrill 
of  satisfaction  when  I  saw,  as  the  Cuban  passed 
me,  that  he  held  a  cigarette  between  his  lips,  not 
arrogantly  nor  with  bravado,  but  with  the  non- 
chalance of  a  man  who  meets  his  punishment  fear- 
lessly, and  who  will  let  his  enemies  see  that  they 
can  kill  but  cannot  frighten  him. 

7 


The  Death  of  Rodriguez 

It  was  very  quickly  finished,  with  rough  and, 
but  for  one  frightful  blunder,  with  merciful  swift- 
ness. The  crowd  fell  back  when  it  came  to  the 
square,  and  the  condemned  man,  the  priests,  and 
the  firing  squad  of  six  young  volunteers  passed  in 
and  the  line  closed  behind  them. 

The  officer  who  had  held  the  cord  that  bound 
the  Cuban's  arms  behind  him  and  passed  across 
his  breast,  let  it  fall  on  the  grass  and  drew  his 
sword,  and  Rodriguez  dropped  his  cigarrette  from 
his  lips  and  bent  and  kissed  the  cross  which  the 
priest  held  up  before  him. 

The  elder  of  the  priests  moved  to  one  side  and 
prayed  rapidly  in  a  loud  whisper,  while  the  other, 
a  younger  man,  walked  behind  the  firing  squad 
and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  They  had 
both  spent  the  last  twelve  hours  with  Rodriguez 
in  the  chapel  of  the  prison. 

The  Cuban  walked  to  where  the  officer  directed 
him  to  stand,  and  turning  his  back  on  the  square, 
faced  the  hills  and  the  road  across  them,  which  led 
to  his  father's  farm. 

As  the  officer  gave  the  first  command  he  straight- 
ened himself  as  far  as  the  cords  would  allow,  and 
held  up  his  head  and  fixed  his  eyes  immovably 
on  the  morning  light,  which  had  just  begun  to 
show  above  the  hills. 

8 


The  Death  of  Rodriguez 

He  made  a  picture  of  such  pathetic  helpless- 
ness, but  of  such  courage  and  dignity,  that  he  re- 
minded me  on  the  instant  of  that  statue  of  Nathan 
Hale  which  stands  in  the  City  Hall  Park,  above 
the  roar  of  Broadway.  The  Cuban's  arms  were 
bound,  as  are  those  of  the  statue,  and  he  stood 
firmly,  with  his  weight  resting  on  his  heels  like  a 
soldier  on  parade,  and  with  his  face  held  up  fear- 
lessly, as  is  that  of  the  statue.  But  there  was  this 
difference,  that  Rodriguez,  while  probably  as  will- 
ing to  give  six  lives  for  his  country  as  was  the 
American  rebel,  being  only  a  peasant,  did  not 
think  to  say  so,  and  he  will  not,  in  consequence, 
live  in  bronze  during  the  lives  of  many  men,  but 
will  be  remembered  only  as  one  of  thirty  Cubans, 
one  of  whom  was  shot  at  Santa  Clara  on  each 
succeeding  day  at  sunrise. 

The  officer  had  given  the  order,  the  men  had 
raised  their  pieces,  and  the  condemned  man  had 
heard  the  clicks  of  the  triggers  as  they  were  pulled 
back,  and  he  had  not  moved.  And  then  happened 
one  of  the  most  cruelly  refined,  though  uninten- 
tional, acts  of  torture  that  one  can  very  well  im- 
agine. As  the  officer  slowly  raised  his  sward, 
preparatory  to  giving  the  signal,  one  of  the  mounted 
officers  rode  up  to  him  and  pointed  out  silently 
that,  as  I  had  already  observed  with  some  satis- 

9 


The  Death  of  Rodriguez 

faction,  the  firing  squad  were  so  placed  that  when 
they  fired  they  would  shoot  several  of  the  soldiers 
stationed  on  the  extreme  end  of  the  square. 

Their  captain  motioned  his  men  to  lower  their 
pieces,  and  then  walked  across  the  grass  and  laid 
his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the  waiting  prisoner. 

It  is  not  pleasant  to  think  what  that  shock 
must  have  been.  The  man  had  steeled  himself 
to  receive  a  volley  of  bullets.  He  believed  that 
in  the  next  instant  he  would  be  in  another  world; 
he  had  heard  the  command  given,  had  heard  the 
click  of  the  Mausers  as  the  locks  caught — and 
then,  at  that  supreme  moment,  a  human  hand 
had  been  laid  upon  his  shoulder  and  a  voice  spoke 
in  his  ear. 

You  would  expect  that  any  man,  snatched  back 
to  life  in  such  a  fashion  would  start  and  tremble 
at  the  reprieve,  or  would  break  down  altogether, 
but  this  boy  turned  his  head  steadily,  and  followed 
with  his  eyes  the  direction  of  the  officer's  sword, 
then  nodded  gravely,  and,  with  his  shoulders 
squared,  took  up  the  new  position,  straightened 
his  back,  and  once  more  held  himself  erect. 

As  an  exhibition  of  self-control  this  should 
surely  rank  above  feats  of  heroism  performed  in 
battle,  where  there  are  thousands  of  comrades  to 
give  inspiration.  This  man  was  alone,  in  sight  of 

10 


The  death  of  Rodriguez 


The  Death  of  Rodriguez 

the  hills  he  knew,  with  only  enemies  about  him, 
with  no  source  to  draw  on  for  strength  but  that 
which  lay  within  himself. 

The  officer  of  the  firing  squad,  mortified  by 
his  blunder,  hastily  whipped  up  his  sword,  the  men 
once  more  levelled  their  rifles,  the  sword  rose, 
dropped,  and  the  men  fired.  At  the  report  the 
Cuban's  head  snapped  back  almost  between  his 
shoulders,  but  his  body  fell  slowly,  as  though  some 
one  had  pushed  him  gently  forward  from  behind 
and  he  had  stumbled. 

He  sank  on  his  side  in  the  wet  grass  without  a 
struggle  or  sound,  and  did  not  move  again. 

It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  he  meant  to  lie 
there,  that  it  could  be  ended  so  without  a  word, 
that  the  man  in  the  linen  suit  would  not  rise  to 
his  feet  and  continue  to  walk  on  over  the  hills, 
as  he  apparently  had  started  to  do,  to  his  home; 
that  there  was  not  a  mistake  somewhere,  or  that 
at  least  some  one  would  be  sorry  or  say  some- 
thing or  run  to  pick  him  up. 

But,  fortunately,  he  did  not  need  help,  and  the 
priests  returned — the  younger  one  with  the  tears 
running  down  his  face — and  donned  their  vest- 
ments and  read  a  brief  requiem  for  his  soul,  while 
the  squad  stood  uncovered,  and  the  men  in  hol- 
low square  shook  their  accoutrements  into  place, 

ii 


The  Death  of  Rodriguez 

and  shifted  their  pieces  and  got  ready  for  the 
order  to  march,  and  the  band  began  again  with 
the  same  quickstep  which  the  fusillade  had  inter- 
rupted. 

The  figure  still  lay  on  the  grass  untouched,  and 
no  one  seemed  to  remember  that  it  had  walked 
there  of  itself,  or  noticed  that  the  cigarette  still 
burned,  a  tiny  ring  of  living  fire,  at  the  place 
where  the  figure  had  first  stood. 

The  figure  was  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  the 
squad  shook  itself  like  a  great  snake,  and  then 
broke  into  little  pieces  and  started  off  jauntily, 
stumbling  in  the  high  grass  and  striving  to  keep 
step  to  the  music. 

The  officers  led  it  past  the  figure  in  the  linen 
suit,  and  so  close  to  it  that  the  file  closers  had  to 
part  with  the  column  to  avoid  treading  on  it. 
Each  soldier  as  he  passed  turned  and  looked  down 
on  it,  some  craning  their  necks  curiously,  others 
giving  a  careless  glance,  and  some  without  any 
interest  at  all,  as  they  would  have  looked  at  a 
house  by  the  roadside,  or  a  hole  in  the  road. 

One  young  soldier  caught  his  foot  in  a  trailing 
vine,  just  opposite  to  it,  and  fell.  He  grew  very 
red  when  his  comrades  giggled  at  him  for  his 
awkwardness.  The  crowd  of  sleepy  spectators 
fell  in  on  either  side  of  the  band.  They,  too,  had 

12 


The  Death  of  Rodriguez 

forgotten  it,  and  the  priests  put  their  vestments 
back  in  the  bag  and  wrapped  their  heavy  cloaks 
about  them,  and  hurried  off  after  the  others. 

Every  one  seemed  to  have  forgotten  it  except 
two  men,  who  came  slowly  towards  it  from  the 
town,  driving  a  bullock-cart  that  bore  an  un- 
planed  coffin,  each  with  a  cigarette  between  his 
lips,  and  with  his  throat  wrapped  in  a  shawl  to 
keep  out  the  morning  mists. 

At  that  moment  the  sun,  which  had  shown 
some  promise  of  its  coming  in  the  glow  above  the 
hills,  shot  up  suddenly  from  behind  them  in  all 
the  splendor  of  the  tropics,  a  fierce,  red  disk  of 
heat,  and  filled  the  air  with  warmth  and  light. 

The  bayonets  of  the  retreating  column  flashed 
in  it,  and  at  the  sight  a  rooster  in  a  farm-yard  near 
by  crowed  vigorously,  and  a  dozen  bugles  an- 
swered the  challenge  with  the  brisk,  cheery  notes 
of  the  reveille,  and  from  all  parts  of  the  city  the 
church  bells  jangled  out  the  call  for  early  mass, 
and  the  little  world  of  Santa  Clara  seemed  to 
stretch  itself  and  to  wake  to  welcome  the  day  just 
begun. 

But  as  I  fell  in  at  the  rear  of  the  procession 
and  looked  back,  the  figure  of  the  young  Cuban, 
who  was  no  longer  a  part  of  the  world  of  Santa 
Clara,  was  asleep  in  the  wet  grass,  with  his  mo- 

13 


The  Death  of  Rodriguez 

tionless  arms  still  tightly  bound  behind  him,  with 
the  scapular  twisted  awry  across  his  face,  and  the 
blood  from  his  breast  sinking  into  the  soil  he 
had  tried  to  free. 


14 


THE  GREEK-TURKISH  WAR 


THE  BATTLE  OF  VELESTINOS* 

THE  Turks  had  made  three  attacks  on  Veles- 
tinos  on  three  different  days,  and  each  time 
had  been  repulsed.  A  week  later,  on  the  4th  of 
May,  they  came  back  again,  to  the  number  of  ten 
thousand,  and  brought  four  batteries  with  them, 
and  the  fighting  continued  for  two  more  days. 
This  was  called  the  second  battle  of  Velestinos. 
In  the  afternoon  of  the  5th  the  Crown  Prince  with- 
drew from  Pharsala  to  take  up  a  stronger  position 
at  Domokos,  and  the  Greeks  under  General 
Smolenski,  the  military  hero  of  the  campaign, 
were  forced  to  retreat,  and  the  Turks  came  in, 
and,  according  to  their  quaint  custom,  burned  the 
village  and  marched  on  to  Volo.  John  Bass,  the 
American  correspondent,  and  myself  were  keeping 
house  in  the  village,  in  the  home  of  the  mayor. 
He  had  fled  from  the  town,  as  had  nearly  all  the 
villagers;  and  as  we  liked  the  appearance  of  his 
house,  I  gave  Bass  a  leg  up  over  the  wall  around 
his  garden,  and  Bass  opened  the  gate,  and  we 

*  From  "A  Year  from  a  Reporter's  Note  Book,"  copyright,  1897, 
by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

17 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

climbed  in  through  his  front  window.  It  was  like 
the  invasion  of  the  home  of  the  Dusantes  by  Mrs. 
Leeks  and  Mrs.  Aleshine,  and,  like  them,  we  were 
constantly  making  discoveries  of  fresh  treasure- 
trove.  Sometimes  it  was  in  the  form  of  a  cake  of 
soap  or  a  tin  of  coffee,  and  once  it  was  the  mayor's 
fluted  petticoats,  which  we  tried  on,  and  found 
very  heavy.  We  could  not  discover  what  he  did 
for  pockets.  All  of  these  things,  and  the  house 
itself,  were  burned  to  ashes,  we  were  told,  a  few 
hours  after  we  retreated,  and  we  feel  less  troubled 
now  at  having  made  such  free  use  of  them. 

On  the  morning  of  the  4th  we  were  awakened 
by  the  firing  of  cannon  from  a  hill  just  over  our 
heads,  and  we  met  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and 
solemnly  shook  hands.  There  was  to  be  a  battle, 
and  we  were  the  only  correspondents  on  the  spot. 
As  I  represented  the  London  Times,  Bass  was  the 
only  representative  of  an  American  newspaper  who 
saw  this  fight  from  its  beginning  to  its  end. 

We  found  all  the  hills  to  the  left  of  the  town 
topped  with  long  lines  of  men  crouching  in  little 
trenches.  There  were  four  rows  of  hills.  If  you 
had  measured  the  distance  from  one  hill-top  to 
the  next,  they  would  have  been  from  one  hundred 
to  three  hundred  yards  distant  from  one  another. 
In  between  the  hills  were  gullies,  or  little  valleys, 

18 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

and  the  beds  of  streams  that  had  dried  up  in  the 
hot  sun.  These  valleys  were  filled  with  high  grass 
that  waved  about  in  the  breeze  and  was  occasion- 
ally torn  up  and  tossed  in  the  air  by  a  shell.  The 
position  of  the  Greek  forces  was  very  simple.  On 
the  top  of  each  hill  was  a  trench  two  or  three  feet 
deep  and  some  hundred  yards  long.  The  earth 
that  had  been  scooped  out  to  make  the  trench 
was  packed  on  the  edge  facing  the  enemy,  and  on 
the  top  of  that  some  of  the  men  had  piled  stones, 
through  which  they  poked  their  rifles.  When  a 
shell  struck  the  ridge  it  would  sometimes  scatter 
these  stones  in  among  the  men,  and  they  did  quite 
as  much  damage  as  the  shells.  Back  of  these 
trenches,  and  down  that  side  of  the  hill  which 
was  farther  from  the  enemy,  were  the  reserves,  who 
sprawled  at  length  in  the  long  grass,  and  smoked 
and  talked  and  watched  the  shells  dropping  into 
the  gully  at  their  feet. 

The  battle,  which  lasted  two  days,  opened  in 
a  sudden  and  terrific  storm  of  hail.  But  the  storm 
passed  as  quickly  as  it  came,  leaving  the  trenches 
running  with  water,  like  the  gutters  of  a  city  street 
after  a  spring  shower;  and  the  men  soon  sopped 
them  up  with  their  overcoats  and  blankets,  and  in 
half  an  hour  the  sun  had  dried  the  wet  uniforms, 
and  the  field-birds  had  begun  to  chirp  again,  and 

19 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

the  grass  was  warm  and  fragrant.  The  sun  was 
terribly  hot.  There  was  no  other  day  during  that 
entire  brief  campaign  when  its  glare  was  so  in- 
tense or  the  heat  so  suffocating.  The  men  curled 
up  in  the  trenches,  with  their  heads  pressed  against 
the  damp  earth,  panting  and  breathing  heavily, 
and  the  heat-waves  danced  and  quivered  about 
them,  making  the  plain  below  flicker  like  a  pic- 
ture in  a  cinematograph. 

From  time  to  time  an  officer  would  rise  and  peer 
down  into  the  great  plain,  shading  his  eyes  with 
his  hands,  and  shout  something  at  them,  and  they 
would  turn  quickly  in  the  trench  and  rise  on  one 
knee.  And  at  the  shout  that  followed  they  would 
fire  four  or  five  rounds  rapidly  and  evenly,  and 
then,  at  a  sound  from  the  officer's  whistle,  would 
drop  back  again  and  pick  up  the  cigarettes  they 
had  placed  in  the  grass  and  begin  leisurely  to  swab 
out  their  rifles  with  a  piece  of  dirty  rag  on  a  clean- 
ing rod.  Down  in  the  plain  below  there  was  ap- 
parently nothing  at  which  they  could  shoot  except 
the  great  shadows  of  the  clouds  drifting  across 
the  vast  checker-board  of  green  and  yellow  fields, 
and  disappearing  finally  between  the  mountain 
passes  beyond.  In  some  places  there  were  square 
dark  patches  that  might  have  been  bushes,  and 
nearer  to  us  than  these  were  long  lines  of  fresh 

20 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

earth,  from  which  steam  seemed  to  be  escaping 
in  little  wisps.  What  impressed  us  most  of  what 
we  could  see  of  the  battle  then  was  the  remark- 
able number  of  cartridges  the  Greek  soldiers 
wasted  in  firing  into  space,  and  the  fact  that  they 
had  begun  to  fire  at  such  long  range  that,  in  order 
to  get  the  elevation,  they  had  placed  the  rifle  butt 
under  the  armpit  instead  of  against  the  shoulder. 
Their  sights  were  at  the  top  notch.  The  car- 
tridges reminded  one  of  corn-cobs  jumping  out 
of  a  corn-sheller,  and  it  was  interesting  when  the 
bolts  were  shot  back  to  see  a  hundred  of  them  pop 
up  into  the  air  at  the  same  time,  flashing  in  the 
sun  as  though  they  were  glad  to  have  done  their 
work  and  to  get  out  again.  They  rolled  by  the 
dozens  underfoot,  and  twinkled  in  the  grass,  and 
when  one  shifted  his  position  in  the  narrow  trench, 
or  stretched  his  cramped  legs,  they  tinkled  musi- 
cally. It  was  like  wading  in  a  gutter  filled  with 
thimbles. 

Then  there  began  a  concert  which  came  from 
just  overhead — a  concert  of  jarring  sounds  and 
little  whispers.  The  "shrieking  shrapnel,"  of 
which  one  reads  in  the  description  of  every  battle, 
did  not  seem  so  much  like  a  shriek  as  it  did  like 
the  jarring  sound  of  telegraph  wires  when  some 
one  strikes  the  pole  from  which  they  hang,  and 

21 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

when  they  came  very  close  the  noise  was  like  the 
rushing  sound  that  rises  between  two  railroad 
trains  when  they  pass  each  other  in  opposite 
directions  and  at  great  speed.  After  a  few  hours 
we  learned  by  observation  that  when  a  shell  sang 
overhead  it  had  already  struck  somewhere  else, 
which  was  comforting,  and  which  was  explained, 
of  course,  by  the  fact  that  the  speed  of  the  shell  is 
so  much  greater  than  the  rate  at  which  sound 
travels.  The  bullets  were  much  more  disturbing; 
they  seemed  to  be  less  open  in  their  warfare,  and 
to  steal  up  and  sneak  by,  leaving  no  sign,  and  only 
to  whisper  as  they  passed.  They  moved  under  a 
cloak  of  invisibility,  and  made  one  feel  as  though 
he  were  the  blind  man  in  a  game  of  blind-man's- 
buff,  where  every  one  tapped  him  in  passing, 
leaving  him  puzzled  and  ignorant  as  to  whither 
they  had  gone  and  from  what  point  they  would 
come  next.  The  bullets  sounded  like  rustling 
silk,  or  like  humming-birds  on  a  warm  summer's 
day,  or  like  the  wind  as  it  is  imitated  on  the  stage 
of  a  theatre.  Any  one  who  has  stood  behind  the 
scenes  when  a  storm  is  progressing  on  the  stage, 
knows  the  little  wheel  wound  with  silk  that 
brushes  against  another  piece  of  silk,  and  which 
produces  the  whistling  effect  of  the  wind.  At 
Velestinos,  when  the  firing  was  very  heavy,  it  was 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

exactly  as  though  some  one  were  turning  one  of 
these  silk  wheels,  and  so  rapidly  as  to  make  the 
whistling  continuous. 

When  this  concert  opened,  the  officers  shouted 
out  new  orders,  and  each  of  the  men  shoved  his 
sight  nearer  to  the  barrel,  and  when  he  fired 
again,  rubbed  the  butt  of  his  gun  snugly  against 
his  shoulder.  The  huge  green  blotches  on  the 
plain  had  turned  blue,  and  now  we  could  dis- 
tinguish that  they  moved,  and  that  they  were  mov- 
ing steadily  forward.  Then  they  would  cease 
to  move,  and  a  little  later  would  be  hidden  behind 
great  puffs  of  white  smoke,  which  were  followed  by 
a  flash  of  flame;  and  still  later  there  would  come 
a  dull  report.  At  the  same  instant  something 
would  hurl  itself  jarring  through  the  air  above 
our  heads,  and  by  turning  on  one  elbow  we  could 
see  a  sudden  upheaval  in  the  sunny  landscape 
behind  us,  a  spurt  of  earth  and  stones  like  a  min- 
iature geyser,  which  was  filled  with  broken  branches 
and  tufts  of  grass  and  pieces  of  rock.  As  the 
Turkish  aim  grew  better  these  volcanoes  appeared 
higher  up  the  hill,  creeping  nearer  and  nearer  to 
the  rampart  of  fresh  earth  on  the  second  trench 
until  the  shells  hammered  it  at  last  again  and 
again,  sweeping  it  away  and  cutting  great  gashes 
in  it,  through  which  we  saw  the  figures  of  men 

23 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

caught  up  and  hurled  to  one  side,  and  others  fling- 
ing themselves  face  downward  as  though  they 
were  diving  into  water;  and  at  the  same  instant 
in  our  own  trench  the  men  would  gasp  as  though 
they  had  been  struck  too,  and  then  becoming  con- 
scious of  having  done  this  would  turn  and  smile 
sheepishly  at  each  other,  and  crawl  closer  into 
the  burrows  they  had  made  in  the  earth. 

From  where  we  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  trench, 
with  our  feet  among  the  cartridges,  we  could,  by 
leaning  forward,  look  over  the  piled-up  earth 
into  the  plain  below,  and  soon,  without  any  aid 
from  field-glasses,  we  saw  the  blocks  of  blue 
break  up  into  groups  of  men.  These  men  came 
across  the  ploughed  fields  in  long,  widely  opened 
lines,  walking  easily  and  leisurely,  as  though  they 
were  playing  golf  or  sowing  seed  in  the  furrows. 
The  Greek  rifles  crackled  and  flashed  at  the 
lines,  but  the  men  below  came  on  quite  steadily, 
picking  their  way  over  the  furrows  and  appear- 
ing utterly  unconscious  of  the  seven  thousand 
rifles  that  were  calling  on  them  to  halt.  They 
were  advancing  directly  toward  a  little  sugar-loaf 
hill,  on  the  top  of  which  was  a  mountain  battery 
perched  like  a  tiara  on  a  woman's  head.  It  was 
throwing  one  shell  after  another  in  the  very  path 
of  the  men  below,  but  the  Turks  still  continued 

24 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

to  pick  their  way  across  the  field,  without  showing 
any  regard  for  the  mountain  battery.  It  was 
worse  than  threatening;  it  seemed  almost  as 
though  they  meant  to  insult  us.  If  they  had  come 
up  on  a  run  they  would  not  have  appeared  so 
contemptuous,  for  it  would  have  looked  then  as 
though  they  were  trying  to  escape  the  Greek  fire,  or 
that  they  were  at  least  interested  in  what  was  go- 
ing forward.  But  the  steady  advance  of  so  many 
men,  each  plodding  along  by  himself,  with  his 
head  bowed  and  his  gun  on  his  shoulder,  was 
aggravating. 

There  was  a  little  village  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 
It  was  so  small  that  no  one  had  considered  it. 
It  was  more  like  a  collection  of  stables  gathered 
round  a  residence  than  a  town,  and  there  was  a 
wall  completely  encircling  it,  with  a  gate  in  the 
wall  that  faced  us.  Suddenly  the  doors  of  this 
gate  were  burst  open  from  the  inside,  and  a  man 
in  a  fez  ran  through  them,  followed  by  many 
more.  The  first  man  was  waving  a  sword,  and  a 
peasant  in  petticoats  ran  at  his  side  and  pointed  up 
with  his  hand  at  our  trench.  Until  that  moment 
the  battle  had  lacked  all  human  interest;  we 
might  have  been  watching  a  fight  against  the  stars 
or  the  man  in  the  moon,  and,  in  spite  of  the  noise 
and  clatter  of  the  Greek  rifles,  and  the  ghostlike 

25 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

whispers  and  the  rushing  sounds  in  the  air,  there 
was  nothing  to  remind  us  of  any  other  battle  of 
which  we  had  heard  or  read.  But  we  had  seen 
pictures  of  officers  waving  swords,  and  we  knew 
that  the  fez  was  the  sign  of  the  Turk — of  the 
enemy — of  the  men  who  were  invading  Thessaly, 
who  were  at  that  moment  planning  to  come  up  a 
steep  hill  on  which  we  happened  to  be  sitting  and 
attack  the  people  on  top  of  it.  And  the  spectacle 
at  once  became  comprehensible,  and  took  on  the 
human  interest  it  had  lacked.  The  men  seemed 
to  feel  this,  for  they  sprang  up  and  began  cheering 
and  shouting,  and  fired  in  an  upright  position, 
and  by  so  doing  exposed  themselves  at  full  length 
to  the  fire  from  the  men  below.  The  Turks  in 
front  of  the  village  ran  back  into  it  again,  and 
those  in  the  fields  beyond  turned  and  began  to 
move  away,  but  in  that  same  plodding,  aggravat- 
ing fashion.  They  moved  so  leisurely  that  there 
was  a  pause  in  the  noise  along  the  line,  while  the 
men  watched  them  to  make  sure  that  they  were 
really  retreating.  And  then  there  was  a  long 
cheer,  after  which  they  all  sat  down,  breathing 
deeply,  and  wiping  the  sweat  and  dust  across  their 
faces,  and  took  long  pulls  at  their  canteens. 

The  different  trenches  were  not  all  engaged  at 
the    same    time.     They    acted    according   to   the 

26 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

individual  judgment  of  their  commanding  officer, 
but  always  for  the  general  good.  Sometimes  the 
fire  of  the  enemy  would  be  directed  on  one  par- 
ticular trench,  and  it  would  be  impossible  for  the 
men  in  that  trench  to  rise  and  reply  without  hav- 
ing their  heads  carried  away;  so  they  would  lie 
hidden,  and  the  men  in  the  trenches  flanking  them 
would  act  in  their  behalf,  and  rake  the  enemy 
from  the  front  and  from  every  side,  until  the  fire 
on  that  trench  was  silenced,  or  turned  upon  some 
other  point.  The  trenches  stretched  for  over  half 
a  mile  in  a  semicircle,  and  the  little  hills  over 
which  they  ran  lay  at  so  many  different  angles, 
and  rose  to  such  different  heights,  that  sometimes 
the  men  in  one  trench  fired  directly  over  the  heads 
of  their  own  men.  From  many  trenches  in  the 
first  line  it  was  impossible  to  see  any  of  the  Greek 
soldiers  except  those  immediately  beside  you.  If 
you  looked  back  or  beyond  on  either  hand  there 
was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  high  hills  topped  with 
fresh  earth,  and  the  waving  yellow  grass,  and  the 
glaring  blue  sky. 

General  Smolenski  directed  the  Greeks  from 
the  plain  to  the  far  right  of  the  town;  and  his 
presence  there,  although  none  of  the  men  saw 
him  nor  heard  of  him  directly  throughout  the 
entire  day,  was  more  potent  for  good  than  would 

27 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

have  been  the  presence  of  five  thousand  other 
men  held  in  reserve.  He  was  a  mile  or  two  miles 
away  from  the  trenches,  but  the  fact  that  he  was 
there,  and  that  it  was  Smolenski  who  was  giving 
the  orders,  was  enough.  Few  had  ever  seen 
Smolenski,  but  his  name  was  sufficient;  it  was 
as  effective  as  is  Mr.  Bowen's  name  on  a  Bank  of 
England  note.  It  gave  one  a  pleasant  feeling  to 
know  that  he  was  somewhere  within  call;  you 
felt  there  would  be  no  "routs"  nor  stampedes 
while  he  was  there.  And  so  for  two  days  those 
seven  thousand  men  lay  in  the  trenches,  repulsing 
attack  after  attack  of  the  Turkish  troops,  suffo- 
cated with  the  heat  and  chilled  with  sudden 
showers,  and  swept  unceasingly  by  shells  and 
bullets — partly  because  they  happened  to  be  good 
men  and  brave  men,  but  largely  because  they 
knew  that  somewhere  behind  them  a  stout,  bull- 
necked  soldier  was  sitting  on  a  camp-stool,  watch- 
ing them  through  a  pair  of  field-glasses. 

Toward  mid-day  you  would  see  a  man  leave 
the  trench  with  a  comrade's  arm  around  him, 
and  start  on  the  long  walk  to  the  town  where  the 
hospital  corps  were  waiting  for  him.  These  men 
did  not  wear  their  wounds  with  either  pride  or 
braggadocio,  but  regarded  the  wet  sleeves  and 
shapeless  arms  in  a  sort  of  wondering  surprise. 

28 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

There  was  much  more  of  surprise  than  of  pain 
in  their  faces,  and  they  seemed  to  be  puzzling  as  to 
what  they  had  done  in  the  past  to  deserve  such  a 
punishment. 

Other  men  were  carried  out  of  the  trench  and 
laid  on  their  backs  on  the  high  grass,  staring  up 
drunkenly  at  the  glaring  sun,  and  with  their  limbs 
fallen  into  unfamiliar  poses.  They  lay  so  still, 
and  they  were  so  utterly  oblivious  of  the  roar  and 
rattle  and  the  anxious  energy  around  them  that 
one  grew  rather  afraid  of  them  and  of  their  su- 
periority to  their  surroundings.  The  sun  beat  on 
them,  and  the  insects  in  the  grass  waving  above 
them  buzzed  and  hummed,  or  burrowed  in  the 
warm  moist  earth  upon  which  they  lay;  over  their 
heads  the  invisible  carriers  of  death  jarred  the  air 
with  shrill  crescendoes,  and  near  them  a  comrade 
sat  hacking  with  his  bayonet  at  a  lump  of  hard 
bread.  He  sprawled  contentedly  in  the  hot  sun, 
with  humped  shoulders  and  legs  far  apart,  and 
with  his  cap  tipped  far  over  his  eyes.  Every  now 
and  again  he  would  pause,  with  a  piece  of  cheese 
balanced  on  the  end  of  his  knife  blade,  and  look 
at  the  twisted  figures  by  him  on  the  grass,  or  he 
would  dodge  involuntarily  as  a  shell  swung  low 
above  his  head,  and  smile  nervously  at  the  still 
forms  on  either  side  of  him  that  had  not  moved. 

29 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

Then  he  brushed  the  crumbs  from  his  jacket  and 
took  a  drink  out  of  his  hot  canteen,  and  looking 
again  at  the  sleeping  figures  pressing  down  the  long 
grass  beside  him,  crawled  back  on  his  hands  and 
knees  to  the  trench  and  picked  up  his  waiting  rifle. 
The  dead  gave  dignity  to  what  the  other  men 
were  doing,  and  made  it  noble,  and,  from  another 
point  of  view,  quite  senseless.  For  their  dying 
had  proved  nothing.  Men  who  could  have  been 
much  better  spared  than  they,  were  still  alive  in 
the  trenches,  and  for  no  reason  but  through  mere 
dumb  chance.  There  was  no  selection  of  the  un- 
fittest;  it  seemed  to  be  ruled  by  unreasoning  luck. 
A  certain  number  of  shells  and  bullets  passed 
through  a  certain  area  of  space,  and  men  of  differ- 
ent bulks  blocked  that  space  in  different  places. 
If  a  man  happened  to  be  standing  in  the  line  of  a 
bullet  he  was  killed  and  passed  into  eternity, 
leaving  a  wife  and  children,  perhaps,  to  mourn 
him.  "Father  died,"  these  children  will  say, 
"doing  his  duty."  As  a  matter  of  fact,  father  died 
because  he  happened  to  stand  up  at  the  wrong 
moment,  or  because  he  turned  to  ask  the  man  on 
his  right  for  a  match,  instead  of  leaning  toward 
the  left,  and  he  projected  his  bulk  of  two  hundred 
pounds  where  a  bullet,  fired  by  a  man  who  did 
not  know  him  and  who  had  not  aimed  at  him,  hap- 

3° 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

pened  to  want  the  right  of  way.  One  of  the  two 
had  to  give  it,  and  as  the  bullet  would  not,  the 
soldier  had  his  heart  torn  out.  The  man  who  sat 
next  to  me  happened  to  stoop  to  fill  his  cartridge- 
box  just  as  the  bullet  that  wanted  the  space  he 
had  occupied  passed  over  his  bent  shoulder;  and 
so  he  was  not  killed,  but  will  live  for  sixty  years, 
perhaps,  and  will  do  much  good  or  much  evil. 
Another  man  in  the  same  trench  sat  up  to  clean 
his  rifle,  and  had  his  arm  in  the  air  driving  the 
cleaning  rod  down  the  barrel,  when  a  bullet  passed 
through  his  lungs,  and  the  gun  fell  across  his  face, 
with  the  rod  sticking  in  it,  and  he  pitched  forward 
on  his  shoulder  quite  dead.  If  he  had  not  cleaned 
his  gun  at  that  moment  he  would  probably  be 
alive  in  Athens  now,  sitting  in  front  of  a  cafe  and 
fighting  the  war  over  again.  Viewed  from  that 
point,  and  leaving  out  the  fact  that  God  ordered 
it  all,  the  fortunes  of  the  game  of  war  seemed  as 
capricious  as  matching  pennies,  and  as  imper- 
sonal as  the  wheel  at  Monte  Carlo.  In  it  the 
brave  man  did  not  win  because  he  was  brave, 
but  because  he  was  lucky.  A  fool  and  a  philoso- 
pher are  equal  at  a  game  of  dice.  And  these  men 
who  threvr  dice  with  death  were  interesting  to 
watch,  because,  though  they  gambled  for  so  great 
a  stake,  they  did  so  unconcernedly  and  without 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

flinching,  and  without  apparently  appreciating  the 
seriousness  of  the  game. 

There  was  a  red-headed,  freckled  peasant  boy, 
in  dirty  petticoats,  who  guided  Bass  and  myself 
to  the  trenches.  He  was  one  of  the  few  peasants 
who  had  not  run  away,  and  as  he  had  driven  sheep 
over  every  foot  of  the  hills,  he  was  able  to  guide  the 
soldiers  through  those  places  where  they  were  best 
protected  from  the  bullets  of  the  enemy.  He  did 
this  all  day,  and  was  always,  whether  coming  or 
going,  under  a  heavy  fire;  but  he  enjoyed  that 
fact,  and  he  seemed  to  regard  the  battle  only  as 
a  delightful  change  in  the  quiet  routine  of  his 
life,  as  one  of  our  own  country  boys  at  home 
would  regard  the  coming  of  the  spring  circus  or 
the  burning  of  a  neighbor's  barn.  He  ran  dancing 
ahead  of  us,  pointing  to  where  a  ledge  of  rock 
offered  a  natural  shelter,  or  showing  us  a  steep 
gully  where  the  bullets  could  not  fall.  When  they 
came  very  near  him  he  would  jump  high  in  the 
air,  not  because  he  was  startled,  but  out  of  pure 
animal  joy  in  the  excitement  of  it,  and  he  would 
frown  importantly  and  shake  his  red  curls  at  us, 
as  though  to  say:  "I  told  you  to  be  careful. 
Now,  you  see.  Don't  let  that  happen  again." 
We  met  him  many  times  during  the  two  days,  es- 
corting different  companies  of  soldiers  from  one 

32 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

point  to  another,  as  though  they  were  visitors  to 
his  estate.  When  a  shell  broke,  he  would  pick 
up  a  piece  and  present  it  to  the  officer  in  charge, 
as  though  it  were  a  flower  he  had  plucked  from 
his  own  garden,  and  which  he  wanted  his  guest 
to  carry  away  with  him  as  a  souvenir  of  his  visit. 
Some  one  asked  the  boy  if  his  father  and  mother 
knew  where  he  was,  and  he  replied,  with  amuse- 
ment, that  they  had  run  away  and  deserted  him, 
and  that  he  had  remained  because  he  wished  to 
see  what  a  Turkish  army  looked  like.  He  was  a 
much  more  plucky  boy  than  the  overrated  Casa- 
bianca,  who  may  have  stood  on  the  burning  deck 
whence  all  but  him  had  fled  because  he  could  not 
swim,  and  because  it  was  with  him  a  choice  of 
being  either  burned  or  drowned.  This  boy  stuck 
to  the  burning  deck  when  it  was  possible  for  him 
at  any  time  to  have  walked  away  and  left  it  burn- 
ing. But  he  stayed  on  because  he  was  amused, 
and  because  he  was  able  to  help  the  soldiers  from 
the  city  in  safety  across  his  native  heath.  He  was 
much  the  best  part  of  the  show,  and  one  of  the 
bravest  Greeks  on  the  field.  He  will  grow  up  to 
be  something  fine,  no  doubt,  and  his  spirit  will 
rebel  against  having  to  spend  his  life  watching  his 
father's  sheep.  He  may  even  win  the  race  from 
Marathon. 

33 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

Another  Greek  who  was  a  most  interesting 
figure  to  us  was  a  Lieutenant  Ambroise  Frantzis. 
He  was  in  command  of  the  mountain  battery  on 
the  flat,  round  top  of  the  high  hill.  On  account 
of  its  height  the  place  seemed  much  nearer  to 
the  sun  than  any  other  part  of  the  world,  and  the 
heat  there  was  three  times  as  fierce  as  in  the 
trenches  below.  When  you  had  climbed  to  the 
top  of  this  hill  it  was  like  standing  on  a  roof- 
garden,  or  as  though  you  were  watching  a  naval 
battle  from  a  fighting  top  of  one  of  the  battle- 
ships. The  top  of  the  hill  was  not  unlike  an  im- 
mense circus  ring  in  appearance.  The  piled-up 
earth  around  its  circular  edge  gave  that  impres- 
sion, and  the  glaring  yellow  wheat  that  was 
tramped  into  glaring  yellow  soil,  and  the  blue 
ammunition-boxes  scattered  about,  helped  out  the 
illusion.  It  was  an  exceedingly  busy  place,  and 
the  smoke  drifted  across  it  continually,  hiding  us 
from  one  another  in  a  curtain  of  flying  yellow 
dust,  while  over  our  heads  the  Turkish  shells  raced 
after  each  other  so  rapidly  that  they  beat  out  the 
air  like  the  branches  of  a  tree  in  a  storm.  On 
account  of  its  height,  and  the  glaring  heat,  and 
the  shells  passing,  and  the  Greek  guns  going  off 
and  then  turning  somersaults,  it  was  not  a  place 
suited  for  meditation;  but  Ambroise  Frantzis 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

meditated  there  as  though  he  were  in  his  own 
study.  He  was  a  very  young  man  and  very  shy, 
and  he  was  too  busy  to  consider  his  own  safety, 
or  to  take  time,  as  the  others  did,  to  show  that  he 
was  not  considering  it.  Some  of  the  other  officers 
stood  up  on  the  breastworks  and  called  the  atten- 
tion of  the  men  to  what  they  were  doing;  but  as 
they  did  not  wish  the  men  to  follow  their  example 
in  this,  it  was  difficult  to  see  what  they  expected  to 
gain  by  their  braggadocio.  Frantzis  was  as  uncon- 
cerned as  an  artist  painting  a  big  picture  in  his 
studio.  The  battle  plain  below  him  was  his  can- 
vas, and  his  nine  mountain  guns  were  his  paint 
brushes.  And  he  painted  out  Turks  and  Turkish 
cannon  with  the  same  concentrated,  serious 
expression  of  countenance  that  you  see  on  the 
face  of  an  artist  when  he  bites  one  brush  between 
his  lips  and  with  another  wipes  out  a  false  line 
or  a  touch  of  the  wrong  color.  You  have  seen  an 
artist  cock  his  head  on  one  side,  and  shut  one  eye 
and  frown  at  his  canvas,  and  then  select  several 
brushes  and  mix  different  colors  and  hit  the  can- 
vas a  bold  stroke,  and  then  lean  back  to  note  the 
effect.  Frantzis  acted  in  just  that  way.  He 
would  stand  with  his  legs  apart  and  his  head  on 
one  side,  pulling  meditatively  at  his  pointed  beard, 
and  then  taking  a  closer  look  through  his  field- 

35 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

glasses,  would  select  the  three  guns  he  had  decided 
would  give  him  the  effect  he  wanted  to  produce, 
and  he  would  produce  that  effect.  When  the 
shot  struck  plump  in  the  Turkish  lines,  and  we 
could  see  the  earth  leap  up  into  the  air  like 
geysers  of  muddy  water,  and  each  gunner  would 
wave  his  cap  and  cheer,  Frantzis  would  only  smile 
uncertainly,  and  begin  again,  with  the  aid  of  his 
field-glasses,  to  puzzle  out  fresh  combinations. 

The  battle  that  had  begun  in  a  storm  of  hail 
ended  on  the  first  day  in  a  storm  of  bullets  that 
had  been  held  in  reserve  by  the  Turks,  and  which 
were  let  off  just  after  sundown.  They  came  from 
a  natural  trench,  formed  by  the  dried-up  bed  of  a 
stream  which  lay  just  below  the  hill  on  which 
the  first  Greek  trench  was  situated.  There  were 
bushes  growing  on  the  bank  of  the  stream  nearest 
to  the  Greek  lines,  and  these  hid  the  men  who 
occupied  it.  Throughout  the  day  there  had  been 
an  irritating  fire  from  this  trench  from  what  ap- 
peared to  be  not  more  than  a  dozen  rifles,  but  we 
could  see  that  it  was  fed  from  time  to  time  with 
many  boxes  of  ammunition,  which  were  carried 
to  it  on  the  backs  of  mules  from  the  Turkish  posi- 
tion a  half  mile  farther  to  the  rear.  Bass  and  a 
corporal  took  a  great  aversion  to  this  little  group 
of  Turks,  not  because  there  were  too  many  of  them 

36 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

to  be  disregarded,  but  because  they  were  so  near; 
and  Bass  kept  the  corporal's  services  engaged  in 
firing  into  it,  and  in  discouraging  the  ammunition 
mules  when  they  were  being  driven  in  that  di- 
rection. Our  corporal  was  a  sharp-shooter,  and, 
accordingly,  felt  his  superiority  to  his  comrades; 
and  he  had  that  cheerful  contempt  for  his  officers 
that  all  true  Greek  soldiers  enjoy,  and  so  he  never 
joined  in  the  volley-firing,  but  kept  his  ammuni- 
tion exclusively  for  the  dozen  men  behind  the 
bushes  and  for  the  mules.  He  waged,  as  it  were, 
a  little  battle  on  his  own  account.  The  other 
men  rose  as  commanded  and  fired  regular  volleys, 
and  sank  back  again,  but  he  fixed  his  sights  to  suit 
his  own  idea  of  the  range,  and  he  rose  when  he 
was  ready  to  do  so,  and  fired  whenever  he  thought 
best.  When  his  officer,  who  kept  curled  up  in  the 
hollow  of  the  trench,  commanded  him  to  lie  down, 
he  would  frown  and  shake  his  head  at  the  interrup- 
tion, and  paid  no  further  attention  to  the  order. 
He  was  as  much  alone  as  a  hunter  on  a  mountain 
peak  stalking  deer,  and  whenever  he  fired  at  the 
men  in  the  bushes  he  would  swear  softly,  and 
when  he  fired  at  the  mules  he  would  chuckle  and 
laugh  with  delight  and  content.  The  mules  had 
to  cross  a  ploughed  field  in  order  to  reach  the 
bushes,  and  so  we  were  able  to  mark  where  his 

37 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

bullets  struck,  and  we  could  see  them  skip  across 
the  field,  kicking  up  the  dirt  as  they  advanced, 
until  they  stopped  the  mule  altogether,  or  fright- 
ened the  man  who  was  leading  it  into  a  disorderly 
retreat. 

It  appeared  later  that  instead  of  there  being 
but  twelve  men  in  these  bushes  there  were  six 
hundred,  and  that  they  were  hiding  there  until 
the  sun  set  in  order  to  make  a  final  attack  on  the 
first  trench.  They  had  probably  argued  that  at 
sunset  the  strain  of  the  day's  work  would  have 
told  on  the  Greek  morale,  that  the  men's  nerves 
would  be  jerking  and  their  stomachs  aching  for 
food,  and  that  they  would  be  ready  for  darkness 
and  sleep,  and  in  no  condition  to  repulse  a  fresh 
and  vigorous  attack.  So,  just  as  the  sun  sank,  and 
the  officers  were  counting  the  cost  in  dead  and 
wounded,  and  the  men  were  gathering  up  blank- 
ets and  overcoats,  and  the  firing  from  the  Greek 
lines  had  almost  ceased,  there  came  a  fierce  rattle 
from  the  trench  to  the  right  of  us,  like  a  watch- 
dog barking  the  alarm,  and  the  others  took  it  up 
from  all  over  the  hill,  and  when  we  looked  down 
into  the  plain  below  to  learn  what  it  meant,  we 
saw  it  blue  with  men,  who  seemed  to  have  sprung 
from  the  earth.  They  were  clambering  from  the 
bed  of  the  stream,  breaking  through  the  bushes, 

38 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

and  forming  into  a  long  line,  which,  as  soon  as 
formed,  was  at  once  hidden  at  regular  intervals 
by  flashes  of  flame  that  seemed  to  leap  from  one 
gun-barrel  to  the  next,  as  you  have  seen  a  current 
of  electricity  run  along  a  line  of  gas-jets.  In  the 
dim  twilight  these  flashes  were  much  more  blinding 
than  they  had  been  in  the  glare  of  the  sun,  and 
the  crash  of  the  artillery  coming  on  top  of  the 
silence  was  the  more  fierce  and  terrible  by  the 
contrast.  The  Turks  were  so  close  on  us  that 
the  first  trench  could  do  little  to  help  itself,  and 
the  men  huddled  against  it  while  their  comrades 
on  the  surrounding  hills  fought  for  them,  their 
volleys  passing  close  above  our  heads,  and  meet- 
ing the  rush  of  the  Turkish  bullets  on  the  way, 
so  that  there  was  now  one  continuous  whistling 
shriek,  like  the  roar  of  the  wind  through  the  rigging 
of  a  ship  in  a  storm.  If  a  man  had  raised  his  arm 
above  his  head  his  hand  would  have  been  torn  off. 
It  had  come  up  so  suddenly  that  it  was  like  two 
dogs,  each  springing  at  the  throat  of  the  other,  and 
in  a  greater  degree  it  had  something  of  the  sound 
of  two  wild  animals  struggling  for  life.  Volley  an- 
swered volley  as  though  with  personal  hate — one 
crashing  in  upon  the  roll  of  the  other,  or  beating 
it  out  of  recognition  with  the  bursting  roar  of 
heavy  cannon.  At  the  same  instant  all  of  the 

in 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

Turkish  batteries  opened  with  great,  ponderous, 
booming  explosions,  and  the  little  mountain  guns 
barked  and  snarled  and  shrieked  back  at  them, 
and  the  rifle  volleys  crackled  and  shot  out  blister- 
ing flames,  while  the  air  was  filled  with  invisible 
express  trains  that  shook  and  jarred  it  and  crashed 
into  one  another,  bursting  and  shrieking  and 
groaning.  It  seemed  as  though  you  were  lying  in  a 
burning  forest,  with  giant  tree  trunks  that  had 
withstood  the  storms  of  centuries  crashing  and 
falling  around  your  ears,  and  sending  up  great 
showers  of  sparks  and  flame.  This  lasted  for  five 
minutes  or  less,  and  then  the  death-grip  seemed 
to  relax,  the  volleys  came  brokenly,  like  a  man 
panting  for  breath,  the  bullets  ceased  to  sound 
with  the  hiss  of  escaping  steam,  and  rustled  aim- 
lessly by,  and  from  hill-top  to  hill-top  the  officers' 
whistles  sounded  as  though  a  sportsman  were  call- 
ing off  his  dogs.  The  Turks  withdrew  into  the 
coming  night,  and  the  Greeks  lay  back,  panting 
and  sweating,  and  stared  open-eyed  at  one  another, 
like  men  who  had  looked  for  a  moment  into  hell, 
and  had  come  back  to  the  world  again. 

The  next  day  was  like  the  first,  except  that  by 
five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  Turks  appeared 
on  our  left  flank,  crawling  across  the  hills  like  an 
invasion  of  great  ants,  and  the  Greek  army  that 


The  Battle  of  Velestinos 

at  Velestinos  had  made  the  two  best  and  most 
dignified  stands  of  the  war  withdrew  upon  Halmy- 
ros,  and  the  Turks  poured  into  the  village  and 
burned  it,  leaving  nothing  standing  save  two  tall 
Turkish  minarets  that  many  years  before,  when 
Thessaly  belonged  to  the  Sultan,  the  Turks  them- 
selves had  placed  there. 


THE  SPANISH-AMERICAN  WAR 


I 

THE  ROUGH  RIDERS  AT  GUASIMAS 

ON  the  day  the  American  troops  landed  on  the 
coast  of  Cuba,  the  Cubans  informed  General 
Wheeler  that  the  enemy  were  intrenched  at  Guasi- 
mas,  blocking  the  way  to  Santiago.  Guasimas  is 
not  a  village,  nor  even  a  collection  of  houses; 
it  is  the  meeting  place  of  two  trails  which  join  at 
the  apex  of  a  V,  three  miles  from  the  seaport  town 
of  Siboney,  and  continue  merged  in  a  single  trail 
to  Santiago.  General  Wheeler,  guided  by  the 
Cubans,  reconnoitred  this  trail  on  the  23rd  of 
June,  and  with  the  position  of  the  enemy  fully 
explained  to  him,  returned  to  Siboney  and  in- 
formed General  Young  and  Colonel  Wood  that 
on  the  following  morning  he  would  attack  the 
Spanish  position  at  Guasimas.  It  has  been 
stated  that  at  Guasimas,  the  Rough  Riders  were 
trapped  in  an  ambush,  but,  as  the  plan  was  dis- 
cussed while  I  was  present,  I  know  that  so  far 
from  any  one's  running  into  an  ambush,  every  one 
of  the  officers  concerned  had  a  full  knowledge 
of  where  he  would  find  the  enemy,  and  what  he 
was  to  do  when  he  found  him. 

45 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

That  night  no  one  slept,  for  until  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  troops  were  still  being  disembarked 
in  the  surf,  and  two  ships  of  war  had  their  search- 
lights turned  on  the  landing-place,  and  made  Sib- 
oney  as  light  as  a  ball-room.  Back  of  the  search- 
lights was  an  ocean  white  with  moonlight,  and  on 
the  shore  red  camp-fires,  at  which  the  half-drowned 
troops  were  drying  their  uniforms,  and  the  Rough 
Riders,  who  had  just  marched  in  from  Baiquiri, 
were  cooking  a  late  supper,  or  early  breakfast  of 
coffee  and  bacon.  Below  the  former  home  of 
the  Spanish  comandante,  which  General  Wheeler 
had  made  his  head-quarters,  lay  the  camp  of  the 
Rough  Riders,  and  through  it  Cuban  officers 
were  riding  their  half-starved  ponies,  and  scatter- 
ing the  ashes  of  the  camp-fires.  Below  them 
was  the  beach  and  the  roaring  surf,  in  which 
a  thousand  or  so  naked  men  were  assisting  and 
impeding  the  progress  shoreward  of  their  com- 
rades, in  pontoons  and  shore  boats,  which  were 
being  hurled  at  the  beach  like  sleds  down  a  water 
chute. 

It  was  one  of  the  most  weird  and  remarkable 
scenes  of  the  war,  probably  of  any  war.  An 
army  was  being  landed  on  an  enemy's  coast  at 
the  dead  of  night,  but  with  the  same  cheers  and 
shrieks  and  laughter  that  rise  from  the  bathers  at 

46 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

Coney  Island  on  a  hot  Sunday.  It  was  a  pande- 
monium of  noises.  The  men  still  to  be  landed 
from  the  "prison  hulks,"  as  they  called  the  trans- 
ports, were  singing  in  chorus,  the  men  already  on 
shore  were  dancing  naked  around  the  camp-fires 
on  the  beach,  or  shouting  with  delight  as  they 
plunged  into  the  first  bath  that  had  offered  in 
seven  days,  and  those  in  the  launches  as  they  were 
pitched  head-first  at  the  soil  of  Cuba,  signalized 
their  arrival  by  howls  of  triumph.  On  either 
side  rose  black  overhanging  ridges,  in  the  low- 
land between  were  white  tents  and  burning  fires, 
and  from  the  ocean  came  the  blazing,  dazzling 
eyes  of  the  search-lights  shaming  the  quiet  moon- 
light. 

After  three  hours'  troubled  sleep  in  this  tumult 
the  Rough  Riders  left  camp  at  five  in  the  morn- 
ing. With  the  exception  of  half  a  dozen  officers 
they  were  dismounted,  and  carried  their  blanket 
rolls,  haversacks,  ammunition,  and  carbines. 
General  Young  had  already  started  toward  Guasi- 
mas the  First  and  Tenth  dismounted  Cavalry,  and 
according  to  the  agreement  of  the  night  before 
had  taken  the  eastern  trail  to  our  right,  while 
the  Rough  Riders  climbed  the  steep  ridge  above 
Siboney  and  started  toward  the  rendezvous  along 
the  trail  to  the  west,  which  was  on  high  ground 

47 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

and  a  half  mile  to  a  mile  distant  from  the  trail 
along  which  General  Young  and  his  regulars 
were  marching.  There  was  a  valley  between  us, 
and  the  bushes  were  so  thick  on  both  sides  of 
our  trail  that  it  was  not  possible  at  any  time,  until 
we  met  at  Guasimas,  to  distinguish  the  other 
column. 

As  soon  as  the  Rough  Riders  had  reached  the 
top  of  the  ridge,  not  twenty  minutes  after  they 
had  left  camp,  which  was  the  first  opportunity 
that  presented  itself,  Colonel  Wood  ordered  Cap- 
tain Capron  to  proceed  with  his  troop  in  front  of 
the  column  as  an  advance  guard,  and  to  choose 
a  "point"  of  five  men  skilled  as  scouts  and  trailers. 
Still  in  advance  of  these  he  placed  two  Cuban 
scouts.  The  column  then  continued  along  the 
trail  in  single  file.  The  Cubans  were  at  a  distance 
of  two  hundred  and  fifty  yards;  the  "point" 
of  five  picked  men  under  Sergeant  Byrne  and 
duty-Sergeant  Fish  followed  them  at  a  distance  of 
a  hundred  yards,  and  then  came  Capron's  troop 
of  sixty  men  strung  out  in  single  file.  No  flankers 
were  placed  for  the  reason  that  the  dense  under- 
growth and  the  tangle  of  vines  that  stretched  from 
the  branches  of  the  trees  to  the  bushes  below 
made  it  a  physical  impossibility  for  man  or  beast 
to  move  forward  except  along  the  single  trail. 

48 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

Colonel  Wood  rode  at  the  head  of  the  column, 
followed  by  two  regular  army  officers  who  were 
members  of  General  Wheeler's  staff,  a  Cuban 
officer,  and  Lieutenant-Colonel  Roosevelt.  They 
rode  slowly  in  consideration  of  the  troopers  on 
foot,  who  under  a  cruelly  hot  sun  carried  heavy 
burdens.  To  those  who  did  not  have  to  walk, 
it  was  not  unlike  a  hunting  excursion  in  our  West; 
the  scenery  was  beautiful  and  the  view  down  the 
valley  one  of  luxuriant  peace.  Roosevelt  had 
never  been  in  the  tropics  and  Captain  McCormick 
and  I  were  talking  back  at  him  over  our  shoulders 
and  at  each  other,  pointing  out  unfamiliar  trees 
and  birds.  Roosevelt  thought  it  looked  like  a 
good  deer  country,  as  it  once  was;  it  reminded 
McCormick  of  Southern  California;  it  looked  to 
me  like  the  trails  in  Central  America.  We  ad- 
vanced, talking  in  that  fashion  and  in  high  spirits, 
and  congratulating  ourselves  in  being  shut  of  the 
transport  and  on  breathing  fine  mountain  air 
again,  and  on  the  fact  that  we  were  on  horseback. 
We  agreed  it  was  impossible  to  appreciate  that  we 
were  really  at  war — that  we  were  in  the  enemy's 
country.  We  had  been  riding  in  this  pleasant 
fashion  for  an  hour  and  a  half  with  brief  halts  for 
rest,  when  Wood  stopped  the  head  of  the  column, 
and  rode  down  the  trail  to  meet  Capron,  who  was 

49 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

coming  back.  Wood  returned  immediately,  leading 
his  horse,  and  said  to  Roosevelt: 

"Pass  the  word  back  to  keep  silence  in  the 
ranks." 

The  place  at  which  we  had  halted  was  where 
the  trail  narrowed,  and  proceeded  sharply  down- 
ward. There  was  on  one  side  of  it  a  stout  barbed- 
wire  fence  of  five  strands.  By  some  fortunate 
accident  this  fence  had  been  cut  just  where  the 
head  of  the  column  halted.  On  the  left  of  the  trail 
it  shut  off  fields  of  high  grass  blocked  at  every 
fifty  yards  with  great  barricades  of  undergrowth 
and  tangled  trees  and  chapparal.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  trail  there  was  not  a  foot  of  free  ground; 
the  bushes  seemed  absolutely  impenetrable,  as 
indeed  they  were  later  found  to  be. 

When  we  halted,  the  men  sat  down  beside  the 
trail  and  chewed  the  long  blades  of  grass,  or 
fanned  the  air  with  their  hats.  They  had  no 
knowledge  of  the  situation  such  as  their  leaders 
possessed,  and  their  only  emotion  was  one  of  sat- 
isfaction at  the  chance  the  halt  gave  them  to  rest 
and  to  shift  their  packs.  Wood  again  walked 
down  the  trail  with  Capron  and  disappeared,  and 
one  of  the  officers  informed  us  that  the  scouts 
had  seen  the  outposts  of  the  enemy.  It  did  not 
seem  reasonable  that  the  Spaniards,  who  had 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

failed  to  attack  us  when  we  landed  at  Baiquiri, 
would  oppose  us  until  they  could  do  so  in  force, 
so,  personally,  I  doubted  that  there  were  any 
Spaniards  nearer  than  Santiago.  But  we  tied  our 
horses  to  the  wire  fence,  and  Capron's  troop 
knelt  with  carbines  at  the  "Ready,"  peering  into 
the  bushes.  We  must  have  waited  there,  while 
Wood  reconnoitred,  for  over  ten  minutes.  Then 
he  returned,  and  began  deploying  his  troops  out 
at  either  side  of  the  trail.  Capron  he  sent  on 
down  the  trail  itself.  G  Troop  was  ordered  to 
beat  into  the  bushes  on  the  right,  and  K  and 
A  were  sent  over  the  ridge  on  which  we  stood 
down  into  the  hollow  to  connect  with  General 
Young's  column  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  val- 
ley. F  and  E  Troops  were  deployed  in  skirmish- 
line  on  the  other  side  of  the  wire  fence.  Wood 
had  discovered  the  enemy  a  few  hundred  yards 
from  where  he  expected  to  find  him,  and  so  far 
from  being  "surprised,"  he  had  time,  as  I  have 
just  described,  to  get  five  of  his  troops  into  posi- 
tion before  a  shot  was  fired.  The  firing,  when 
it  came,  started  suddenly  on  our  right.  It  sounded 
so  close  that — still  believing  we  were  acting  on  a 
false  alarm,  and  that  there  were  no  Spaniards 
ahead  of  us — I  guessed  it  was  Capron's  men  firing 
at  random  to  disclose  the  enemy's  position.  I 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

ran  after  G  Troop  under  Captain  Llewellyn, 
and  found  them  breaking  their  way  through  the 
bushes  in  the  direction  from  which  the  volleys 
came.  It  was  like  forcing  the  walls  of  a  maze. 
If  each  trooper  had  not  kept  in  touch  with  the 
man  on  either  hand  he  would  have  been  lost  in 
the  thicket.  At  one  moment  the  underbrush 
seemed  swarming  with  our  men,  and  the  next, 
except  that  you  heard  the  twigs  breaking,  and 
heavy  breathing  or  a  crash  as  a  vine  pulled  some 
one  down,  there  was  not  a  sign  of  a  human  being 
anywhere.  In  a  few  minutes  we  broke  through 
into  a  little  open  place  in  front  of  a  dark  curtain 
of  vines,  and  the  men  fell  on  one  knee  and  began 
returning  the  fire  that  came  from  it. 

The  enemy's  fire  was  exceedingly  heavy,  and 
his  aim  was  excellent.  We  saw  nothing  of  the 
Spaniards,  except  a  few  on  the  ridge  across  the 
valley.  I  happened  to  be  the  only  one  present 
with  field  glasses,  and  when  I  discovered  this  force 
on  the  ridge,  and  had  made  sure,  by  the  cockades 
in  their  sombreros,  that  they  were  Spaniards  and 
not  Cubans,  I  showed  them  to  Roosevelt.  He 
calculated  they  were  five  hundred  yards  from  us, 
and  ordered  the  men  to  fire  on  them  at  that  range. 
Through  the  two  hours  of  fighting  that  followed, 
although  men  were  falling  all  around  us,  the 

52 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

Spaniards  on  the  ridge  were  the  only  ones  that 
many  of  us  saw.  But  the  fire  against  us  was  not 
more  than  eighty  yards  away,  and  so  hot  that  our 
men  could  only  lie  flat  in  the  grass  and  return  it 
in  that  position.  It  was  at  this  moment  that  our 
men  believed  they  were  being  attacked  by  Ca- 
pron's  troop,  which  they  imagined  must  have 
swung  to  the  right,  and  having  lost  its  bearings  and 
hearing  them  advancing  through  the  underbrush, 
had  mistaken  them  for  the  enemy.  They  accord- 
ingly ceased  firing  and  began  shouting  in  order  to 
warn  Capron  that  he  was  shooting  at  his  friends. 
This  is  the  foundation  for  the  statement  that  the 
Rough  Riders  had  fired  on  each  other,  which 
they  did  not  do  then  or  at  any  other  time.  Later 
we  examined  the  relative  position  of  the  trail 
which  Capron  held,  and  the  position  of  G  Troop, 
and  they  were  at  right  angles  to  one  another. 
Capron  could  not  possibly  have  fired  into  us  at 
any  time,  unless  he  had  turned  directly  around 
in  his  tracks  and  aimed  up  the  very  trail  he  had 
just  descended.  Advancing,  he  could  no  more 
have  hit  us  than  he  could  have  seen  us  out  of  the 
back  of  his  head.  When  we  found  many  hun- 
dred spent  cartridges  of  the  Spaniards  a  hundred 
yards  in  front  of  G  Troop's  position,  the  question 
as  to  who  had  fired  on  us  was  answered. 

53 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

It  was  an  exceedingly  hot  corner.  The  whole 
troop  was  gathered  in  the  little  open  place  blocked 
by  the  net-work  of  grape-vines  and  tangled  bushes 
before  it.  They  could  not  see  twenty  feet  on 
three  sides  of  them,  but  on  the  right  hand  lay  the 
valley,  and  across  it  came  the  sound  of  Young's 
brigade,  who  were  apparently  heavily  engaged. 
The  enemy's  fire  was  so  close  that  the  men  could 
not  hear  the  word  of  command,  and  Captain 
Llewellyn  and  Lieutenant  Greenway,  unable  to 
get  their  attention,  ran  among  them,  batting  them 
with  their  sombreros  to  make  them  cease  firing. 
Lieutenant-Colonel  Roosevelt  ran  up  just  then, 
bringing  with  him  Lieutenant  Woodbury  Kane 
and  ten  troopers  from  K  Troop.  Roosevelt  lay 
down  in  the  grass  beside  Llewellyn  and  consulted 
with  him  eagerly.  Kane  was  smiling  with  the 
charming  content  of  a  perfectly  happy  man. 
When  Captain  Llewellyn  told  him  his  men  were 
not  needed,  and  to  rejoin  his  troop,  he  led  his 
detail  over  the  edge  of  the  hill  on  which  we  lay. 
As  he  disappeared  below  the  crest  he  did  not 
stoop  to  avoid  the  bullets,  but  walked  erect, 
still  smiling.  Roosevelt  pointed  out  that  it  was 
impossible  to  advance  farther  on  account  of  the 
net-work  of  wild  grape-vines  that  masked  the 
Spaniards  from  us,  and  that  we  must  cross  the 

54 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

trail  and  make  to  the  left.  The  shouts  the  men  had 
raised  to  warn  Capron  had  established  our  posi- 
tion to  the  enemy,  and  the  firing  was  now  fearfully 
accurate.  Sergeant  Russell,  who  in  his  day  had 
been  a  colonel  on  a  governor's  staff,  was  killed, 
and  the  other  sergeant  was  shot  through  the  wrist. 
In  the  space  of  three  minutes  nine  men  were  lying 
on  their  backs  helpless.  Before  we  got  away, 
every  third  man  was  killed,  or  wounded.  We 
drew  off  slowly  to  the  left,  dragging  the  wounded 
with  us.  Owing  to  the  low  aim  of  the  enemy,  we 
were  forced  to  move  on  our  knees  and  crawl. 
Even  then  men  were  hit.  One  man  near  me  was 
shot  through  the  head.  Returning  later  to  locate 
the  body  and  identify  him,  I  found  that  the 
buzzards  had  torn  off  his  lips  and  his  eyes.  This 
mutilation  by  these  hideous  birds  was,  without 
doubt,  what  Admiral  Sampson  mistook  for  the 
work  of  the  Spaniards,  when  the  bodies  of  the 
marines  at  Guantanamo  were  found  disfigured. 
K  Troop  meantime  had  deployed  into  the  valley 
under  the  fire  from  the  enemy  on  the  ridge.  It 
had  been  ordered  to  establish  communication  with 
General  Young's  column,  and  while  advancing 
and  firing  on  the  ridge,  Captain  Jenkins  sent  the 
guidon  bearer  back  to  climb  the  hill  and  wave  his 
red  and  white  banner  where  Young's  men  could 

55 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

see  it.  The  guidon  bearer  had  once  run  for  Con- 
gress on  the  gold  ticket  in  Arizona,  and,  as  some 
one  said,  was  naturally  the  man  who  should  have 
been  selected  for  a  forlorn  hope.  His  flag  brought 
him  instantly  under  a  heavy  fire,  but  he  continued 
waving  it  until  the  Tenth  Cavalry  on  the  other 
side  of  the  valley  answered,  and  the  two  columns 
were  connected  by  a  skirmish-line  composed  of  K 
Troop  and  A,  under  Captain  "Bucky"  O'Neill. 
G  Troop  meanwhile  had  hurried  over  to  the 
left,  and  passing  through  the  opening  in  the  wire 
fence  had  spread  out  into  open  order.  It  followed 
down  after  Captain  Luna's  troop  and  D  and  E 
Troops,  which  were  well  already  in  advance. 
Roosevelt  ran  forward  and  took  command  of  the 
extreme  left  of  this  line.  Wood  was  walking  up 
and  down  along  it,  leading  his  horse,  which  he 
thought  might  be  of  use  in  case  he  had  to  move 
quickly  to  alter  his  original  formation.  His  plan, 
at  present,  was  to  spread  out  his  men  so  that  they 
would  join  Young  on  the  right,  and  on  the  left 
swing  around  until  they  flanked  the  enemy.  K 
and  A  Troops  had  already  succeeded  in  joining 
hands  with  Young's  column  across  the  valley, 
and  as  they  were  capable  of  taking  care  of  them- 
selves, Wood  was  bending  his  efforts  to  keep  his 
remaining  four  companies  in  a  straight  line  and  re- 

56 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

volving  them  around  the  enemy's  "end."  It  was 
in  no  way  an  easy  thing  to  do.  The  men  were  at 
times  wholly  hidden  from  each  other,  and  from 
him;  probably  at  no  one  time  did  he  see  more 
than  two  of  his  troops  together.  It  was  only  by 
the  firing  that  he  could  tell  where  his  men  lay,  and 
that  they  were  always  advancing. 

The  advances  were  made  in  quick,  desperate 
rushes — sometimes  the  ground  gained  was  no 
more  than  a  man  covers  in  sliding  for  a  base. 
At  other  times  half  a  troop  would  rise  and  race 
forward  and  then  burrow  deep  in  the  hot  grass 
and  fire.  On  this  side  of  the  line  there  was  an 
occasional  glimpse  of  the  enemy.  But  for  a  great 
part  of  the  time  the  men  shot  at  the  places  from 
where  the  enemy's  fire  seemed  to  come,  aiming 
low  and  answering  in  steady  volleys.  The  fire 
discipline  was  excellent.  The  prophets  of  evil  of 
the  Tampa  Bay  Hotel  had  foretold  that  the  cow- 
boys would  shoot  as  they  chose,  and,  in  the  field, 
would  act  independently  of  their  officers.  As  it 
turned  out,  the  cowboys  were  the  very  men  who 
waited  most  patiently  for  the  officers  to  give  the 
word  of  command.  At  all  times  the  movement 
was  without  rest,  breathless  and  fierce,  like  a 
cane-rush,  or  a  street  fight.  After  the  first  three 
minutes  every  man  had  stripped  as  though  for 

57 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

a  wrestling  match,  throwing  off  all  his  impedi- 
menta but  his  cartridge-belt  and  canteen.  Even 
then  the  sun  handicapped  their  strength  cruelly. 
The  enemy  was  hidden  in  the  shade  of  the  jungle, 
while  they,  for  every  thicket  they  gained,  had  to 
fight  in  the  open,  crawling  through  grass  which 
was  as  hot  as  a  steam  bath,  and  with  their  flesh 
and  clothing  torn  by  thorns  and  the  sword-like 
blade  of  the  Spanish  "bayonet."  The  glare  of 
the  sun  was  full  in  their  eyes  and  as  fierce  as  a 
lime-light. 

When  G  Troop  passed  on  across  the  trail  to  the 
left  I  stopped  at  the  place  where  the  column  had 
first  halted — it  had  been  converted  into  a  dressing 

O 

station  and  the  wounded  of  G  Troop  were  left 
there  in  the  care  of  the  hospital  stewards.  A  tall, 
gaunt  young  man  with  a  cross  on  his  arm  was 
just  coming  back  up  the  trail.  His  head  was 
bent,  and  by  some  surgeon's  trick  he  was  carrying 
a  wounded  man  much  heavier  than  himself  across 
his  shoulders.  As  I  stepped  out  of  the  trail  he 
raised  his  head,  and  smiled  and  nodded,  and  left 
me  wondering  where  I  had  seen  him  before,  smil- 
ing in  the  same  cheery,  confident  way  and  mov- 
ing in  that  same  position.  I  knew  it  could  not 
have  been  under  the  same  conditions,  and  yet  he 
was  certainly  associated  with  another  time  of 

58 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

excitement  and  rush  and  heat.  Then  I  remem- 
bered him.  As  now  he  had  been  covered  with 
blood  and  dirt  and  perspiration,  but  then  he  wore 
a  canvas  jacket  and  the  man  he  carried  on  his 
shoulders  was  trying  to  hold  him  back  from  a 
white-washed  line.  And  I  recognized  the  young 
doctor,  with  the  blood  bathing  his  breeches,  as 
"Bob"  Church,  of  Princeton.  That  was  only 
one  of  four  badly  wounded  men  he  carried  that 
day  on  his  shoulders  over  a  half-mile  of  trail  that 
stretched  from  the  firing-line  back  to  the  dressing 
station  and  under  an  unceasing  fire.*  As  the 
senior  surgeon  was  absent  he  had  chief  responsi- 
bility that  day  for  all  the  wounded,  and  that  so 
few  of  them  died  is  greatly  due  to  this  young 
man  who  went  down  into  the  firing-line  and  pulled 
them  from  it,  and  bore  them  out  of  danger.  The 
comic  paragraphers  who  wrote  of  the  members 
of  the  Knickerbocker  Club  and  the  college  swells 
of  the  Rough  Riders  and  of  their  imaginary  valets 
and  golf  clubs,  should,  in  decency,  since  the  fight 
at  Guasimas  apologize.  For  the  same  spirit  that 
once  sent  these  men  down  a  white-washed  field 
against  their  opponents'  rush  line  was  the  spirit 
that  sent  Church,  Channing,  Devereux,  Ronalds, 

*  For  this  "distinguished  gallantry  in  action,"  James  R.  Church 
later  received  the  medal  of  honor. 

59 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

Wrenn,  Cash,  Bull,  Larned,  Goodrich,  Greenway, 
Dudley  Dean,  and  a  dozen  others  through  the 
high  hot  grass  at  Guasimas,  not  shouting,  as  their 
friends  the  cowboys  did,  but  each  with  his  mouth 
tightly  shut,  with  his  eyes  on  the  ball,  and  moving 
in  obedience  to  the  captain's  signals. 

Judging  from  the  sound,  our  firing-line  now 
seemed  to  be  half  a  mile  in  advance  of  the  place 
where  the  head  of  the  column  had  first  halted. 
This  showed  that  the  Spaniards  had  been  driven 
back  at  least  three  hundred  yards  from  their  orig- 
inal position.  It  was  impossible  to  see  any  of 
our  men  in  the  field,  so  I  ran  down  the  trail  with 
the  idea  that  it  would  lead  me  back  to  the  troop 
I  had  left  when  I  had  stopped  at  the  dressing 
station.  The  walk  down  that  trail  presented  one 
of  the  most  grewsome  pictures  of  the  war.  It  nar- 
rowed as  it  descended;  it  was  for  that  reason  the 
enemy  had  selected  that  part  of  it  for  the  attack, 
and  the  vines  and  bushes  interlaced  so  closely 
above  it  that  the  sun  could  not  come  through. 

The  rocks  on  either  side  were  spattered  with 
blood  and  the  rank  grass  was  matted  with  it. 
Blanket  rolls,  haversacks,  carbines,  and  canteens 
had  been  abandoned  all  along  its  length.  It 
looked  as  though  a  retreating  army  had  fled  along 
it,  rather  than  that  one  troop  had  fought  its  way 

60 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

through  it  to  the  front.  Except  for  the  clatter  of 
the  land-crabs,  those  hideous  orchid-colored  mon- 
sters that  haunt  the  places  of  the  dead,  and  the 
whistling  of  the  bullets  in  the  trees,  the  place  was 
as  silent  as  a  grave.  For  the  wounded  lying  along 
its  length  were  as  still  as  the  dead  beside  them. 
The  noise  of  the  loose  stones  rolling  under  my 
feet  brought  a  hospital  steward  out  of  the  brush, 
and  he  called  after  me: 

"Lieutenant  Thomas  is  badly  wounded  in  here, 
and  we  can't  move  him.  We  want  to  carry  him 
out  of  the  sun  some  place,  where  there  is  shade 
and  a  breeze."  Thomas  was  the  first  lieutenant 
of  Capron's  troop.  He  is  a  young  man,  large  and 
powerfully  built.  He  was  shot  through  the  leg 
just  below  the  trunk,  and  I  found  him  lying  on  a 
blanket  half  naked  and  covered  with  blood,  and 
with  his  leg  bound  in  tourniquets  made  of  twigs 
and  pocket-handkerchiefs.  It  gave  one  a  thrill 
of  awe  and  wonder  to  see  how  these  cowboy 
surgeons,  with  a  stick  that  one  would  use  to  light 
a  pipe  and  with  the  gaudy  'kerchiefs  they  had 
taken  from  their  necks,  were  holding  death  at 
bay.  The  young  officer  was  in  great  pain  and 
tossing  and  raving  wildly.  When  we  gathered 
up  the  corners  of  his  blanket  and  lifted  him,  he 
tried  to  sit  upright,  and  cried  out,  "You're  tak- 

61 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

ing  me  to  the  front,  aren't  you  ?  You  said  you 
would.  They've  killed  my  captain — do  you  un- 
derstand ?  They've  killed  Captain  Capron.  The 
Mexicans!  They've  killed  my  captain." 

The  troopers  assured  him  they  were  carrying 
him  to  the  firing-line,  but  he  was  not  satisfied. 
We  stumbled  over  the  stones  and  vines,  bumping 
his  wounded  body  against  the  ground  and  leaving 
a  black  streak  in  the  grass  behind  us,  but  it  seemed 
to  hurt  us  more  than  it  did  him,  for  he  sat  up  again 
clutching  at  us  imploringly  with  his  bloody  hands. 

"For  God's  sake,  take  me  to  the  front,"  he 
begged.  "Do  you  hear?  I  order  you;  damn 
you,  I  order —  We  must  give  them  hell;  do  you 
hear  ?  we  must  give  them  hell.  They've  killed 
Capron.  They've  killed  my  captain." 

The  loss  of  blood  at  last  mercifully  silenced  him,, 
and  when  we  had  reached  the  trail  he  had  fainted 
and  I  left  them  kneeling  around  him,  their  grave 
boyish  faces  filled  with  symapthy  and  concern. 

Only  fifty  feet  from  him  and  farther  down  the 
trail  I  passed  his  captain,  with  his  body  propped 
against  Church's  knee  and  with  his  head  fallen 
on  the  surgeon's  shoulder.  Capron  was  always  a 
handsome,  soldierly  looking  man — some  said  that 
he  was  the  most  soldierly  looking  of  any  of  the 
young  officers  in  the  army — and  as  I  saw  him  then 

62 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

death  had  given  him  a  great  dignity  and  noble- 
ness. He  was  only  twenty-eight  years  old,  the  age 
when  life  has  just  begun,  but  he  rested  his  head  on 
the  surgeon's  shoulder  like  a  man  who  knew  he 
was  already  through  with  it  and  that,  though 
they  might  peck  and  mend  at  the  body,  he  had  re- 
ceived his  final  orders.  His  breast  and  shoulders 
were  bare,  and  as  the  surgeon  cut  the  tunic  from 
him  the  sight  of  his  great  chest  and  the  skin,  as 
white  as  a  girl's,  and  the  black  open  wound  against 
it  made  the  yellow  stripes  and  the  brass  insignia 
on  the  tunic,  strangely  mean  and  tawdry. 

Fifty  yards  farther  on,  around  a  turn  in  the 
trail,  behind  a  rock,  a  boy  was  lying  with  a  bullet 
wound  between  his  eyes.  His  chest  was  heav- 
ing with  short,  hoarse  noises  which  I  guessed 
were  due  to  some  muscular  action  entirely,  and 
that  he  was  virtually  dead.  I  lifted  him  and 
gave  him  some  water,  but  it  would  not  pass 
through  his  fixed  teeth.  In  the  pocket  of  his 
blouse  was  a  New  Testament  with  the  name 
Fielder  Dawson,  Mo.,  scribbled  in  it  in  pencil. 
While  I  was  writing  it  down  for  identification,  a 
boy  as  young  as  himself  came  from  behind  me 
down  the  trail. 

"It  is  no  use/'  he  said;  "the  surgeon  has  seen 
him;  he  says  he  is  just  the  same  as  dead.  He  is 

63 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

my  bunkie;  we  only  met  two  weeks  ago  at  San 
Antonio;  but  he  and  me  had  got  to  be  such  good 
friends —  But  there's  nothing  I  can  do  now." 
He  threw  himself  down  on  the  rock  beside  his 
bunkie,  who  was  still  breathing  with  that  hoarse 
inhuman  rattle,  and  I  left  them,  the  one  who  had 
been  spared  looking  down  helplessly  with  the 
tears  creeping  across  his  cheeks. 

The  firing  was  quite  close  now,  and  the  trail 
was  no  longer  filled  with  blanket  rolls  and  haver- 
sacks, nor  did  pitiful,  prostrate  figures  lie  in  wait 
behind  each  rock.  I  guessed  this  must  mean  that 
I  now  was  well  in  advance  of  the  farthest  point  to 
which  Capron's  troop  had  moved,  and  I  was 
running  forward  feeling  confident  that  I  must  be 
close  on  our  men,  when  I  saw  the  body  of  a  ser- 
geant blocking  the  trail  and  stretched  at  full 
length  across  it.  Its  position  was  a  hundred 
yards  in  advance  of  that  of  any  of  the  others — it 
was  apparently  the  body  of  the  first  man  killed. 
After  death  the  bodies  of  some  men  seem  to  shrink 
almost  instantly  within  themselves;  they  become 
limp  and  shapeless,  and  their  uniforms  hang  upon 
them  strangely.  But  this  man,  who  was  a  giant 
in  life,  remained  a  giant  in  death — his  very  atti- 
tude was  one  of  attack;  his  fists  were  clinched,  his 
jaw  set,  and  his  eyes,  which  were  still  human, 

64 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

seemed  fixed  with  resolve.  He  was  dead,  but  he 
was  not  defeated.  And  so  Hamilton  Fish  died 
as  he  had  lived — defiantly,  running  into  the  very 
face  of  the  enemy,  standing  squarely  upright  on 
his  legs  instead  of  crouching,  as  the  others  called 
to  him  to  do,  until  he  fell  like  a  column  across  the 
trail.  "God  gives,"  was  the  motto  on  the  watch 
I  took  from  his  blouse,  and  God  could  not  have 
given  him  a  nobler  end;  to  die,  in  the  fore-front 
of  the  first  fight  of  the  war,  quickly,  painlessly, 
with  a  bullet  through  the  heart,  with  his  regi- 
ment behind  him,  and  facing  the  enemies  of  his 
country. 

The  line  at  this  time  was  divided  by  the  trail 
into  two  wings.  The  right  wing,  composed  of  K 
and  A  Troops,  was  advancing  through  the  val- 
ley, returning  the  fire  from  the  ridge  as  it  did  so, 
and  the  left  wing,  which  was  much  the  longer 
of  the  two,  was  swinging  around  on  the  enemy's 
right  flank,  with  its  own  right  resting  on  the 
barbed-wire  fence.  I  borrowed  a  carbine  from  a 
wounded  man,  and  joined  the  remnant  of  L 
Troop  which  was  close  to  the  trail. 

This  troop  was  then  commanded  by  Second 
Lieutenant  Day,  who  on  account  of  his  conduct 
that  morning  and  at  the  battle  of  San  Juan  later, 
when  he  was  shot  through  the  arm,  was  promoted 

65 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

to  be  captain  of  L  Troop,  or,  as  it  was  later  officially 
designated,  Capron's  troop.  He  was  walking  up 
and  down  the  line  as  unconcernedly  as  though 
we  were  at  target  practice,  and  an  Irish  ser- 
geant, Byrne,  was  assisting  him  by  keeping  up  a 
continuous  flow  of  comments  and  criticisms  that 
showed  the  keenest  enjoyment  of  the  situation. 
Byrne  was  the  only  man  I  noticed  who  seemed  to 
regard  the  fight  as  in  any  way  humorous.  For 
at  Guasimas,  no  one  had  time  to  be  flippant,  or 
to  exhibit  any  signs  of  braggadocio.  It  was  for 
all  of  them,  from  the  moment  it  started,  through 
the  hot,  exhausting  hour  and  a  half  that  it  lasted, 
a  most  serious  proposition.  The  conditions  were 
exceptional.  The  men  had  made  a  night  march 
the  evening  before,  had  been  given  but  three 
hours'  troubled  sleep  on  the  wet  sand,  and  had 
then  been  marched  in  full  equipment  uphill  and 
under  a  cruelly  hot  sun,  directly  into  action.  And 
eighty  per  cent,  of  them  had  never  before  been 
under  fire.  Nor  had  one  man  in  the  regiment 
ever  fired  a  Krag-Jorgensen  carbine  until  he  fired 
it  at  a  Spaniard,  for  their  arms  had  been  issued 
to  them  so  soon  before  sailing  that  they  had  only 
drilled  with  them  without  using  cartridges.  To 
this  handicap  was  also  added  the  nature  of  the 
ground  and  the  fact  that  our  men  could  not  see 

66 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

their  opponents.  Their  own  men  fell  or  rolled 
over  on  every  side,  shot  down  by  an  invisible 
enemy,  with  no  one  upon  whom  they  could  retali- 
ate, with  no  sign  that  the  attack  might  not  go  on 
indefinitely.  Yet  they  never  once  took  a  step  back- 
ward, but  advanced  grimly,  cleaning  a  bush  or 
thicket  of  its  occupants  before  charging  it,  and 
securing  its  cover  for  themselves,  and  answering 
each  volley  with  one  that  sounded  like  an  echo 
of  the  first.  The  men  were  panting  for  breath; 
the  sweat  ran  so  readily  into  their  eyes  that  they 
could  not  see  the  sights  of  their  guns;  their  limbs 
unused  to  such  exertion  after  seven  days  of 
cramped  idleness  on  the  troop-ship,  trembled  with 
weakness  and  the  sun  blinded  and  dazzled  them; 
but  time  after  time  they  rose  and  staggered  for- 
ward through  the  high  grass,  or  beat  their  way 
with  their  carbines  against  the  tangle  of  vines 
and  creepers.  A  mile  and  a  half  of  territory 
was  gained  foot  by  foot  in  this  fashion,  the  three 
Spanish  positions  carried  in  that  distance  being 
marked  by  the  thousands  of  Mauser  cartridges 
that  lay  shining  and  glittering  in  the  grass  and 
behind  the  barricades  of  bushes.  But  this  distance 
had  not  been  gained  without  many  losses,  for 
every  one  in  the  regiment  was  engaged.  Even 
those  who,  on  account  of  the  heat,  had  dropped 

67 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

out  along  the  trail,  as  soon  as  the  sound  of  the 
fight  reached  them,  came  limping  to  the  front — 
and  plunged  into  the  firing-line.  It  was  the  only 
place  they  could  go — there  was  no  other  line. 
With  the  exception  of  Church's  dressing  station 
and  its  wounded  there  were  no  reserves. 

Among  the  first  to  be  wounded  was  the  corre- 
spondent, Edward  Marshall,  of  the  New  York 
Journal,  who  was  on  the  firing-line  to  the  left. 
He  was  shot  through  the  body  near  the  spine, 
and  when  I  saw  him  he  was  suffering  the  most 
terrible  agonies,  and  passing  through  a  succession 
of  convulsions.  He  nevertheless,  in  his  brief 
moments  of  comparative  peace,  bore  himself  with 
the  utmost  calm,  and  was  so  much  a  soldier  to 
duty  that  he  continued  writing  his  account  of  the 
fight  until  the  fight  itself  was  ended.  His  cour- 
age was  the  admiration  of  all  the  troopers,  and 
he  was  highly  commended  by  Colonel  Wood  in 
the  official  account  of  the  engagement. 

Nothing  so  well  Illustrated  how  desperately 
each  man  was  needed,  and  how  little  was  his  de- 
sire to  withdraw,  as  the  fact  that  the  wounded 
lay  where  they  fell  until  the  hospital  stewards 
found  them.  Their  comrades  did  not  use  them  as 
an  excuse  to  go  to  leave  the  firing-line.  I  have 
watched  other  fights,  where  the  men  engaged  were 

68 


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o 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

quite  willing  to  unselfishly  bear  the  wounded  from 
the  zone  of  danger. 

The  fight  had  now  lasted  an  hour,  and  the  line 
had  reached  a  more  open  country,  with  a  slight 
incline  upward  toward  a  wood,  on  the  edge  of 
which  was  a  ruined  house.  This  house  was  a 
former  distillery  for  aguardiente,  and  was  now 
occupied  in  force  by  the  enemy.  Lieutenant- 
Colonel  Roosevelt  on  the  far  left  was  moving  up 
his  men  with  the  intention  of  taking  this  house 
on  the  flank;  Wood,  who  was  all  over  the  line, 
had  the  same  objective  point  in  his  mind.  The 
troop  commanders  had  a  general  idea  that  the 
distillery  was  the  key  to  the  enemy's  position, 
and  were  all  working  in  that  direction.  It  was  ex- 
tremely difficult  for  Wood  and  Roosevelt  to  com- 
municate with  the  captains,  and  after  the  first  gen- 
eral orders  had  been  given  them  they  relied  upon 
the  latter' s  intelligence  to  pull  them  through.  I 
do  not  suppose  Wood,  out  of  the  five  hundred  en- 
gaged, saw  more  than  thirty  of  his  men  at  any  one 
time.  When  he  had  passed  one  troop,  except 
for  the  noise  of  its  volley  firing,  it  was  immediately 
lost  to  him  in  the  brush,  and  it  was  so  with  the 
next.  Still,  so  excellent  was  the  intelligence  of  the 
officers,  and  so  ready  the  spirit  of  the  men,  that 
they  kept  an  almost  perfect  alignment,  as  was 

69 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

shown  when  the  final  order  came  to  charge  in  the 
open  fields.  The  advance  upon  the  ruined  build- 
ing was  made  in  stubborn,  short  rushes,  some- 
times in  silence,  and  sometimes  firing  as  we  ran. 
The  order  to  fire  at  will  was  seldom  given,  the 
men  waiting  patiently  for  the  officers'  signal,  and 
then  answering  in  volleys.  Some  of  the  men  who 
were  twice  Day's  age  begged  him  to  let  them  take 
the  enemy's  impromptu  fort  on  the  run,  but  he 
answered  them  tolerantly  like  spoiled  children,  and 
held  them  down  until  there  was  a  lull  in  the 
enemy's  fire,  when  he  would  lead  them  forward, 
always  taking  the  advance  himself.  By  the  way 
they  made  these  rushes,  it  was  easy  to  tell  which 
men  were  used  to  hunting  big  game  in  the  West 
and  which  were  not.  The  Eastern  men  broke  at 
the  word,  and  ran  for  the  cover  they  were  di- 
rected to  take  like  men  trying  to  get  out  of  the 
rain,  and  fell  panting  on  their  faces,  while  the 
Western  trappers  and  hunters  slipped  and  wrig- 
gled through  the  grass  like  Indians;  dodging 
from  tree  trunk  to  tree  trunk,  and  from  one  bush 
to  another.  They  fell  into  line  at  the  same  time 
with  the  others,  but  while  doing  so  they  had  not 
once  exposed  themselves.  Some  of  the  escapes 
were  little  short  of  miraculous.  The  man  on  my 
right,  Champneys  Marshall,  of  Washington,  had 

70 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

one  bullet  pass  through  his  sleeve,  and  another  pass 
through  his  shirt,  where  it  was  pulled  close  to 
his  spine.  The  holes  where  the  ball  entered  and 
went  out  again  were  clearly  cut.  Another  man's 
skin  was  slightly  burned  by  three  bullets  in  three 
distinct  lines,  as  though  it  had  been  touched  for 
an  instant  by  the  lighted  end  of  a  cigar.  Green- 
way  was  shot  through  this  shirt  across  the  breast, 
and  Roosevelt  was  so  close  to  one  bullet,  when 
it  struck  a  tree,  that  it  filled  his  eyes  and  ears 
with  tiny  splinters.  Major  Brodie  and  Lieutenant 
Thomas  were  both  wounded  within  a  few  feet  of 
Colonel  Wood,  and  his  color-sergeant,  Wright, 
who  followed  close  at  his  heels,  was  clipped  three 
times  in  the  head  and  neck,  and  four  bullets 
passed  through  the  folds  of  the  flag  he  carried. 
One  trooper,  Rowland,  of  Deming,  was  shot 
through  the  lower  ribs;  he  was  ordered  by  Roose- 
velt to  fall  back  to  the  dressing  station,  but  there 
Church  told  him  there  was  nothing  he  could  do 
for  him  then,  and  directed  him  to  sit  down  until 
he  could  be  taken  to  the  hospital  at  Siboney. 
Rowland  sat  still  for  a  short  time,  and  then 
remarked  restlessly,  "I  don't  seem  to  be  do- 
ing much  good  here,"  and  picking  up  his  car- 
bine, returned  to  the  firing-line.  There  Roosevelt 
found  him. 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

"I  thought  I  ordered  you  to  the  rear,"  he  de~ 
manded. 

"Yes,  sir,  you  did,"  Rowland  said,  "but  there 
didn't  seem  to  be  much  doing  back  there." 

After  the  fight  he  was  sent  to  Siboney  with  the 
rest  of  the  wounded,  but  two  days  later  he  ap- 
peared in  camp.  He  had  marched  from  Siboney, 
a  distance  of  six  miles,  and  uphill  all  the  way, 
carrying  his  carbine,  canteen,  and  cartridge-belt. 

"I  thought  you  were  in  hospital,"  Wood  said. 

"I  was,"  Rowland  answered  sheepishly,  "but 
I  didn't  seem  to  be  doing  any  good  there." 

They  gave  him  up  as  hopeless,  and  he  continued 
his  duties  and  went  into  the  fight  of  the  San  Juan 
hills  with  the  hole  still  through  his  ribs.  Another 
cowboy  named  Heffher,  when  shot  through  the  body, 
asked  to  be  propped  up  against  a  tree  with  his  can- 
teen and  cartridge-belt  beside  him,  and  the  last  his 
troop  saw  of  him  he  was  seated  alone  grimly  firing 
over  their  heads  in  the  direction  of  the  enemy. 

Early  in  the  fight  I  came  upon  Church  attend- 
ing to  a  young  cowboy,  who  was  shot  through 
the  chest.  The  entrance  to  his  wound  was  so 
small  that  Church  could  not  insert  enough  of 
the  gauze  packing  to  stop  the  flow  of  blood. 

"I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  make  this  hole  larger," 
he  said  to  the  boy,  "or  you'll  bleed  to  death," 

72 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

"AH  right,"  the  trooper  answered,  "I  guess  you 
know  your  business."  The  boy  stretched  out  on 
his  back  and  lay  perfectly  quiet  while  Church, 
with  a  pair  of  curved  scissors,  cut  away  the  edges 
of  the  wound.  His  patient  neither  whimpered 
nor  swore,  but  stared  up  at  the  sun  in  silence. 
The  bullets  were  falling  on  every  side,  and  the 
operation  was  a  hasty  one,  but  the  trooper  made 
no  comment  until  Church  said,  "We'd  better  get 
out  of  this;  can  you  stand  being  carried  ?" 

"Do  you  think  you  can  carry  me  ?"  the  troop- 
er asked. 

"Yes." 

"Well,"  exclaimed  the  boy  admiringly,  "you 
certainly  know  your  business!" 

Another  of  the  Rough  Riders  was  brought  to 
the  dressing  station  with  a  shattered  ankle,  and 
Church,  after  bandaging  it,  gave  him  his  choice 
of  riding  down  to  Siboney  on  a  mule,  or  of  being 
carried,  a  day  later,  on  a  litter. 

"  If  you  think  you  can  manage  to  ride  the  mule 
with  that  broken  foot,"  he  said,  "you  can  start  at 
once,  but  if  you  wait  until  to-morrow,  when  I  can 
spare  the  men,  you  can  be  carried  all  the  way." 

The  cowboy  preferred  to  start  at  once,  so  six 
hospital  stewards  lifted  him  and  dropped  him 
on  the  mule,  and  into  a  huge  Mexican  saddle. 

73 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

He  stuck  his  wounded  ankle  into  one  stirrup,  and 
his  untouched  one  into  the  other,  and  gathered 
up  the  reins. 

"Does  it  pain  you?  Can  you  stand  it?" 
Church  asked  anxiously.  The  cowboy  turned 
and  smiled  down  upon  him  with  amused  disdain. 

"Stand  this?"  he  cried.  "Why,  this  is  just 
like  getting  money  from  home." 

Toward  the  last,  the  firing  from  the  enemy 
sounded  less  near,  and  the  bullets  passed  much 
higher.  Roosevelt,  who  had  picked  up  a  carbine 
and  was  firing  to  give  the  direction  to  the  others, 
determined  upon  a  charge.  Wood,  at  the  other 
end  of  the  line,  decided  at  the  same  time  upon 
the  same  manoeuvre.  It  was  called  "Wood's 
bluff"  afterward,  for  he  had  nothing  to  back  it 
with;  while  to  the  enemy  it  looked  as  though  his 
whole  force  was  but  the  skirmish-line  in  advance 
of  a  regiment.  The  Spaniards  naturally  could 
not  believe  that  this  thin  line  which  suddenly 
broke  out  of  the  bushes  and  from  behind  trees 
and  came  cheering  out  into  the  hot  sunlight  was 
the  entire  fighting  force  against  it.  They  supposed 
the  regiment  was  coming  close  on  its  heels,  and  as 
Spanish  troops  hate  being  rushed  as  a  cat  hates 
water,  they  fired  a  few  parting  volleys  and  broke 
and  ran.  The  cheering  had  the  same  invigorat- 

74 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

ing  effect  on  our  own  side  as  a  cold  shower;  it 
was  what  first  told  half  the  men  where  the  other 
half  were,  and  it  made  every  individual  man  feel 
better.  As  we  knew  it  was  only  a  bluff,  the  first 
cheer  was  wavering,  but  the  sound  of  our  own 
voices  was  so  comforting  that  the  second  cheer 
was  a  howl  of  triumph. 

As  it  was,  the  Spaniards  thought  the  Rough 
Riders  had  already  disregarded  all  the  rules  of  war. 

"When  we  fired  a  volley,"  one  of  the  prisoners 
said  later,  "instead  of  falling  back  they  came 
forward.  That  is  not  the  way  to  fight,  to  come 
closer  at  every  volley."  And  so,  when  instead  of 
retreating  on  each  volley,  the  Rough  Riders 
rushed  at  them,  cheering  and  filling  the  hot  air 
with  wild  cowboy  yells,  the  dismayed  enemy  re- 
treated upon  Santiago,  where  he  announced  he 
had  been  attacked  by  the  entire  American  army. 
One  of  the  residents  of  Santiago  asked  one  of  the 
soldiers  if  those  Americans  fought  well. 

"  Well!"  he  replied,  "they  tried  to  catch  us  with 
their  hands!" 

I  have  not  attempted  to  give  any  account  of 
General  Young's  fight  on  our  right,  which  was 
equally  desperate,  and,  owing  to  the  courage  of 
the  colored  troops  of  the  Tenth  in  storming  a 
ridge,  equally  worthy  of  praise.  But  it  has 

75 


The  Rough  Riders  at  Guasimas 

seemed  better  not  to  try  and  tell  of  anything  I 
did  not  see,  but  to  limit  myself  to  the  work  of 
the  Rough  Riders,  to  whom,  after  all,  the  victory 
was  due,  as  it  was  owing  to  Colonel  Wood's  charge, 
which  took  the  Spaniards  in  flank,  that  General 
Wheeler  and  General  Young  were  able  to  advance, 
their  own  stubborn  attack  in  front  having  failed 
to  dislodge  the  enemy  from  his  rifle-pits. 

According  to  the  statement  of  the  enemy,  who 
had  every  reason  not  to  exaggerate  the  size  of 
his  own  force,  4,000  Spaniards  were  engaged  in 
this  action.  The  Rough  Riders  numbered  534, 
and  General  Young's  force  numbered  464.  The 
American  troops  accordingly  attacked  a  force  over 
four  times  their  own  number  intrenched  behind 
rifle-pits  and  bushes  in  a  mountain  pass.  In  spite 
of  the  smokeless  powder  used  by  the  Spaniards, 
which  hid  their  position,  the  Rough  Riders 
routed  them  out  of  it,  and  drove  them  back  from 
three  different  barricades  until  they  made  their 
last  stand  in  the  ruined  distillery,  whence  they 
finally  drove  them  by  assault.  The  eager  spirit 
in  which  this  was  accomplished  is  best  described 
in  the  Spanish  soldier's  answer  to  the  inquiring 
civilian,  "They  tried  to  catch  us  with  their  hands." 
The  Rough  Riders  should  adopt  it  as  their  motto. 


76 


II 

THE  BATTLE  OF  SAN  JUAN  HILL 

A<TER  the  Guasimas  fight  on  June  24,  the 
army  was  advanced  along  the  single  trail 
which  leads  from  Siboney  on  the  coast  to  Santiago. 
Two  streams  of  excellent  water  run  parallel  with 
this  trail  for  short  distances,  and  some  eight  miles 
from  the  coast  crossed  it  in  two  places.  Our 
outposts  were  stationed  at  the  first  of  these  fords, 
the  Cuban  outposts  a  mile  and  a  half  farther  on 
at  the  ford  nearer  Santiago,  where  the  stream 
made  a  sharp  turn  at  a  place  called  El  Poso. 
Another  mile  and  a  half  of  trail  extended  from 
EJ  Poso  to  the  trenches  of  San  Juan.  The  reader 
should  remember  El  Poso,  as  it  marked  an  im- 
portant starting-point  against  San  Juan  on  the 
eventful  first  of  July. 

For  six  days  the  army  was  encamped  on  either 
side  of  the  trail  for  three  miles  back  from  the 
outposts.  The  regimental  camps  touched  each 
other,  and  all  day  long  the  pack-trains  carrying 
the  day's  rations  passed  up  and  down  between 
them.  The  trail  was  a  sunken  wagon  road,  where 
it  was  possible,  in  a  few  places,  for  two  wagons 

77 


The  Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill 

to  pass  at  one  time,  but  the  greater  distances  were 
so  narrow  that  there  was  but  just  room  for  a 
wagon,  or  a  loaded  mule-train,  to  make  its  way. 
The  banks  of  the  trail  were  three  or  four  feet  high, 
and  when  it  rained  it  was  converted  into  a  huge 
gutter,  with  sides  of  mud,  and  with  a  liquid  mud 
a  foot  deep  between  them.  The  camps  were 
pitched  along  the  trail  as  near  the  parallel  stream 
as  possible,  and  in  the  occasional  places  where 
there  was  rich,  high  grass.  At  night  the  men 
slept  in  dog  tents,  open  at  the  front  and  back, 
and  during  the  day  spent  their  time  under  the 
shade  of  trees  along  the  trail,  or  on  the  banks  of 
the  stream.  Sentries  were  placed  at  every  few 
feet  along  these  streams  to  guard  them  from  any 
possible  pollution.  For  six  days  the  army  rested 
in  this  way,  for  as  an  army  moves  and  acts  only 
on  its  belly,  and  as  the  belly  of  this  army  was 
three  miles  long,  it  could  advance  but  slowly. 

This  week  of  rest,  after  the  cramped  life  of  the 
troop-ship,  was  not  ungrateful,  although  the  ra- 
tions were  scarce  and  there  was  no  tobacco,  which 
was  as  necessary  to  the  health  of  the  men  as  their 
food. 

During  this  week  of  waiting,  the  chief  excite- 
ment was  to  walk  out  a  mile  and  a  half  beyond 
the  outposts  to  the  hill  of  El  Poso,  and  look 

78 


The  Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill 

across  the  basin  that  lay  in  the  great  valley  which 
leads  to  Santiago.  The  left  of  the  valley  was  the 
hills  which  hide  the  sea.  The  right  of  the  valley 
was  the  hills  in  which  nestle  the  village  of  El 
Caney.  Below  El  Poso,  in  the  basin,  the  dense 
green  forest  stretched  a  mile  and  a  half  to  the  hills 
of  San  Juan.  These  hills  looked  so  quiet  and 
sunny  and  well  kept  that  they  reminded  one  of  a 
New  England  orchard.  There  was  a  blue  bunga- 
low on  a  hill  to  the  right,  a  red  bungalow  higher 
up  on  the  right,  and  in  the  centre  the  block-house 
of  San  Juan,  which  looked  like  a  Chinese  pagoda. 
Three-quarters  of  a  mile  behind  them,  with  a  dip 
between,  were  the  long  white  walls  of  the  hospital 
and  barracks  of  Santiago,  wearing  thirteen  Red 
Cross  flags,  and,  as  was  pointed  out  to  the  foreign 
attaches  later,  two  six-inch  guns  a  hundred  yards 
in  advance  of  the  Red  Cross  flags. 

It  was  so  quiet,  so  fair,  and  so  prosperous  look- 
ing that  it  breathed  of  peace.  It  seemed  as 
though  one  might,  without  accident,  walk  in  and 
take  dinner  at  the  Venus  Restaurant,  or  loll  on 
the  benches  in  the  Plaza,  or  rock  in  one  of  the 
great  bent-wood  chairs  around  the  patio  of  the 
Don  Carlos  Club. 

But,  on  the  ayth  of  June,  a  long,  yellow  pit 
opened  in  the  hill-side  of  San  Juan,  and  in  it  we 

79 


The  Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill 

could  see  straw  sombreros  rising  and  bobbing  up 
and  down,  and  under  the  shade  of  the  block- 
house, blue-coated  Spaniards  strolling  leisurely 
about  or  riding  forth  on  little  white  ponies  to 
scamper  over  the  hills.  Officers  of  every  regi- 
ment, attaches  of  foreign  countries,  correspondents, 
and  staff  officers  daily  reported  the  fact  that  the 
rifle-pits  were  growing  in  length  and  in  number, 
and  that  in  plain  sight  from  the  hill  of  El  Poso 
the  enemy  was  intrenching  himself  at  San  Juan, 
and  at  the  little  village  of  El  Caney  to  the  right, 
where  he  was  marching  through  the  streets.  But 
no  artillery  was  sent  to  El  Poso  hill  to  drop  a 
shell  among  the  busy  men  at  work  among  the 
trenches,  or  to  interrupt  the  street  parades  in  El 
Caney.  For  four  days  before  the  American  sol- 
diers captured  the  same  rifle-pits  at  El  Caney  and 
San  Juan,  with  a  loss  of  two  thousand  men,  they 
watched  these  men  diligently  preparing  for  their 
coming,  and  wondered  why  there  was  no  order 
to  embarrass  or  to  end  these  preparations. 

On  the  afternoon  of  June  30,  Captain  Mills  rode 
up  to  the  tent  of  Colonel  Wood,  and  told  him  that 
on  account  of  illness,  General  Wheeler  and  Gen- 
eral Young  had  relinquished  their  commands,  and 
that  General  Sumner  would  take  charge  of  the 
Cavalry  Division;  that  he,  Colonel  Wood,  would 

80 


The  Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill 

take  command  of  General  Young's  brigade,  and 
Colonel  Carroll,  of  General  Sumner's  brigade. 

"You  will  break  camp  and  move  forward  at 
four  o'clock,"  he  said.  It  was  then  three  o'clock, 
and  apparently  the  order  to  move  forward  at  four 
had  been  given  to  each  regiment  at  nearly  the 
same  time,  for  they  all  struck  their  tents  and 
stepped  down  into  the  trail  together.  It  was  as 
though  fifteen  regiments  were  encamped  along  the 
sidewalks  of  Fifth  Avenue  and  were  all  ordered 
at  the  same  moment  to  move  into  it  and  march 
downtown.  If  Fifth  Avenue  were  ten  feet  wide, 
one  can  imagine  the  confusion. 

General  Chaffee  was  at  General  Lawton's  head- 
quarters, and  they  stood  apart  whispering  to- 
gether about  the  march  they  were  to  take  to  El 
Caney.  Just  over  their  heads  the  balloon  was 
ascending  for  the  first  time  and  its  great  glisten- 
ing bulk  hung  just  above  the  tree  tops,  and  the 
men  in  different  regiments,  picking  their  way 
along  the  trail,  gazed  up  at  it  open-mouthed. 
The  head-quarters  camp  was  crowded.  After  a 
week  of  inaction  the  army,  at  a  moment's  notice, 
was  moving  forward,  and  every  one  had  ridden 
in  haste  to  learn  why. 

There  were  attaches,  in  strange  uniforms,  self- 
important  Cuban  generals,  officers  from  the  flag- 
Si 


The  Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill 

ship  New  York,  and  an  army  of  photographers. 
At  the  side  of  the  camp,  double  lines  of  soldiers 
passed  slowly  along  the  two  paths  of  the  muddy 
road,  while,  between  them,  aides  dashed  up  and 
down,  splashing  them  with  dirty  water,  and  shout- 
ng,  "You  will  come  up  at  once,  sir."  "You  will 
not  attempt  to  enter  the  trail  yet,  sir."  "General 
Sumner's  compliments,  and  why  are  you  not  in 
your  place  ?" 

Twelve  thousand  men,  with  their  eyes  fixed  on 
a  balloon,  and  treading  on  each  other's  heels  in 
three  inches  of  mud,  move  slowly,  and  after  three 
hours,  it  seemed  as  though  every  man  in  the 
United  States  was  under  arms  and  stumbling  and 
slipping  down  that  trail.  The  lines  passed  until 
the  moon  rose.  They  seemed  endless,  intermina- 
ble; there  were  cavalry  mounted  and  dismounted, 
artillery  with  cracking  whips  and  cursing  drivers, 
Rough  Riders  in  brown,  and  regulars,  both  black 
and  white,  in  blue.  Midnight  came,  and  they 
were  still  stumbling  and  slipping  forward. 

General  Sumner's  head-quarters  tent  was 
pitched  to  the  right  of  El  Poso  hill.  Below  us 
lay  the  basin  a  mile  and  a  half  in  length,  and  a 
mile  and  a  half  wide,  from  which  a  white  mist  was 
rising.  Near  us,  drowned  under  the  mist,  seven 
thousand  men  were  sleeping,  and,  farther  to  the 

82 


The  Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill 

right,  General  Chaffee's  five  thousand  were  lying 
under  the  bushes  along  the  trails  to  El  Caney, 
waiting  to  march  on  it  and  eat  it  up  before  break- 
fast. 

The  place  hardly  needs  a  map  to  explain  it. 
The  trails  were  like  a  pitchfork,  with  its  prongs 
touching  the  hills  of  San  Juan.  The  long  handle 
of  the  pitchfork  was  the  trail  over  which  we  had 
just  come,  the  joining  of  the  handle  and  the 
prongs  were  El  Poso.  El  Caney  lay  half-way 
along  the  right  prong,  the  left  one  was  the  trail 
down  which,  in  the  morning,  the  troops  were  to 
be  hurled  upon  San  Juan.  It  was  as  yet  an  ut- 
terly undiscovered  country.  Three  miles  away, 
across  the  basin  of  mist,  we  could  see  the  street 
lamps  of  Santiago  shining  over  the  San  Juan 
hills.  Above  us,  the  tropical  moon  hung  white 
and  clear  in  the  dark  purple  sky,  pierced  with 
millions  of  white  stars.  As  we  turned  in,  there 
was  just  a  little  something  in  the  air  which  made 
saying  "good-night"  a  gentle  farce,  for  no  one 
went  to  sleep  immediately,  but  lay  looking  up  at 
the  stars,  and  after  a  long  silence,  and  much  rest- 
less turning  on  the  blanket  which  we  shared  to- 
gether, the  second  lieutenant  said:  "So,  if  any- 
thing happens  to  me,  to-morrow,  you'll  see  she 
gets  them,  won't  you?"  Before  the  moon  rose 

83 


The  Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill 

again,  every  sixth  man  who  had  slept  in  the  mist 
that  night  was  either  killed  or  wounded;  but 
the  second  lieutenant  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of 
a  Spanish  rifle-pit,  dirty,  sweaty,  and  weak  for 
food,  but  victorious,  and  the  unknown  she  did 
not  get  them. 

El  Caney  had  not  yet  thrown  off  her  blanket 
of  mist  before  Capron's  battery  opened  on  it 
from  a  ridge  two  miles  in  the  rear.  The  plan  for 
the  day  was  that  El  Caney  should  fall  in  an  hour. 
The  plan  for  the  day  is  interesting  chiefly  be- 
cause it  is  so  different  from  what  happened. 
According  to  the  plan  the  army  was  to  advance 
in  two  divisions  along  the  two  trails.  Incident- 
ally, General  Lawton's  division  was  to  pick  up  El 
Caney,  and  when  El  Caney  was  eliminated,  his 
division  was  to  continue  forward  and  join  hands 
on  the  right  with  the  divisions  of  General  Sumner 
and  General  Kent.  The  army  was  then  to  rest 
for  that  night  in  the  woods,  half  a  mile  from  San 
Juan. 

On  the  following  morning  it  was  to  attack  San 
Juan  on  the  two  flanks,  under  cover  of  artillery. 
The  objection  to  this  plan,  which  did  not  appar- 
ently suggest  itself  to  General  Shafter,  was  that 
an  army  of  twelve  thousand  men,  sleeping  within 
five  hundred  yards  of  the  enemy's  rifle-pits,  might 

84 


The  Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill 

not  unreasonably  be  expected  to  pass  a  bad  night. 
As  we  discovered  the  next  day,  not  only  the  five 
hundred  yards,  but  the  whole  basin  was  covered 
by  the  fire  from  the  rifle-pits.  Even  by  daylight, 
when  it  was  possible  to  seek  some  slight  shelter, 
the  army  could  not  remain  in  the  woods,  but  ac- 
cording to  the  plan  it  was  expected  to  bivouac 
for  the  night  in  those  woods,  and  in  the  morning 
to  manoeuvre  and  deploy  and  march  through 
them  to  the  two  flanks  of  San  Juan.  How  the 
enemy  was  to  be  hypnotized  while  this  was  going 
forward  it  is  difficult  to  understand. 

According  to  this  programme,  Capron's  battery 
opened  on  El  Caney  and  Grimes' s  battery  opened 
on  the  pagoda-like  block-house  of  San  Juan. 
The  range  from  El  Poso  was  exactly  2,400  yards, 
and  the  firing,  as  was  discovered  later,  was  not 
very  effective.  The  battery  used  black  powder, 
and,  as  a  result,  after  each  explosion  the  curtain 
of  smoke  hung  over  the  gun  for  fully  a  minute 
before  the  gunners  could  see  the  San  Juan  trenches, 
which  was  chiefly  important  because  for  a  full 
minute  it  gave  a  mark  to  the  enemy.  The  hill  on 
which  the  battery  stood  was  like  a  sugar-loaf. 
Behind  it  was  the  farm-house  of  El  Poso,  the  only 
building  in  sight  within  a  radius  of  a  mile,  and 
in  it  were  Cuban  soldiers  and  other  non-combat- 

85 


The  Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill 

ants.  The  Rough  Riders  had  been  ordered  to 
halt  in  the  yard  of  the  farm-house  and  the  artillery 
horses  were  drawn  up  in  it,  under  the  lee  of  the 
hill.  The  First  and  Tenth  dismounted  Cavalry 
were  encamped  a  hundred  yards  from  the  battery 
along  the  ridge.  They  might  as  sensibly  have 
been  ordered  to  paint  the  rings  in  a  target  while 
a  company  was  firing  at  the  bull's-eye.  To  our 
first  twenty  shots  the  enemy  made  no  reply;  when 
they  did  it  was  impossible,  owing  to  their  using 
smokeless  powder,  to  locate  their  guns.  Their 
third  shell  fell  in  among  the  Cubans  in  the  block- 
house and  among  the  Rough  Riders  and  the  men 
of  the  First  and  Tenth  Cavalry,  killing  some  and 
wounding  many.  These  casualties  were  utterly 
unnecessary  and  were  due  to  the  stupidity  of  who- 
ever placed  the  men  within  fifty  yards  of  guns  in 
action. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  after  the  firing  began 
from  El  Poso  one  of  General  Shaffer's  aides  di- 
rected General  Sumner  to  advance  with  his  divis- 
ion down  the  Santiago  trail,  and  to  halt  at  the 
edge  of  the  woods. 

"What  am  I  to  do  then?"  asked  General 
Sumner. 

"You  are  to  await  further  orders,"  the  aide 
answered. 

86 


<U  5« 

£  2 

'C  « 

c  •= 


The  Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill 

As  a  matter  of  fact  and  history  this  was  prob- 
ably the  last  order  General  Sumner  received  from 
General  Shafter,  until  the  troops  of  his  division 
had  taken  the  San  Juan  hills,  as  it  became  impos- 
sible to  get  word  to  General  Shafter,  the  trail  lead- 
ing to  his  head-quarters  tent,  three  miles  in  the 
rear,  being  blocked  by  the  soldiers  of  the  First 
and  Tenth  dismounted  Cavalry,  and  later,  by 
Lawton's  division.  General  Sumner  led  the  Sixth, 
Third,  and  Ninth  Cavalry  and  the  Rough  Riders 
down  the  trail,  with  instructions  for  the  First  and 
Tenth  to  follow.  The  trail,  virgin  as  yet  from 
the  foot  of  an  American  soldier,  was  as  wide  as 
its  narrowest  part,  which  was  some  ten  feet 
across.  At  places  it  was  as  wide  as  Broadway, 
but  only  for  such  short  distances  that  it  was 
necessary  for  the  men  to  advance  in  column,  in 
double  file.  A  maze  of  underbrush  and  trees  on 
either  side  was  all  but  impenetrable,  and  when 
the  officers  and  men  had  once  assembled  into  the 
basin,  they  could  only  guess  as  to  what  lay  before 
them,  or  on  either  flank.  At  the  end  of  a  mile 
the  country  became  more  open,  and  General  Sum- 
ner saw  the  Spaniards  intrenched  a  half-mile 
away  on  the  sloping  hills.  A  stream,  called  the 
San  Juan  River,  ran  across  the  trail  at  this  point, 
and  another  stream  crossed  it  again  two  hundred 

87 


The  Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill 

yards  farther  on.  The  troops  were  halted  at  this 
first  stream,  some  crossing  it,  and  others  deploy- 
ing in  single  file  to  the  right.  Some  were  on  the 
banks  of  the  stream,  others  at  the  edge  of  the 
woods  in  the  bushes.  Others  lay  in  the  high 
grass  which  was  so  high  that  it  stopped  the  wind, 
and  so  hot  that  it  almost  choked  and  suffocated 
those  who  lay  in  it. 

The  enemy  saw  the  advance  and  began  firing 
with  pitiless  accuracy  into  the  jammed  and 
crowded  trail  and  along  the  whole  border  of  the 
woods.  There  was  not  a  single  yard  of  ground 
for  a  mile  to  the  rear  which  was  not  inside  the 
zone  of  fire.  Our  men  were  ordered  not  to  return 
the  fire  but  to  lie  still  and  wait  for  further  orders. 
Some  of  them  could  see  the  rifle-pits  of  the  enemy 
quite  clearly  and  the  men  in  them,  but  many  saw 
nothing  but  the  bushes  under  which  they  lay,  and 
the  high  grass  which  seemed  to  burn  when  they 
pressed  against  it.  It  was  during  this  period  of 
waiting  that  the  greater  number  of  our  men  were 
killed.  For  one  hour  they  lay  on  their  rifles  star- 
ing at  the  waving  green  stuff  around  them,  while 
the  bullets  drove  past  incessantly,  with  savage 
insistence,  cutting  the  grass  again  and  again  in 
hundreds  of  fresh  places.  Men  in  line  sprang 
from  the  ground  and  sank  back  again  with  a 

88 


The  Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill 

groan,  or  rolled  to  one  side  clinging  silently  to  an 
arm  or  shoulder.  Behind  the  lines  hospital  stew- 
ards passed  continually,  drawing  the  wounded 
back  to  the  streams,  where  they  laid  them  in  long 
rows,  their  feet  touching  the  water's  edge  and  their 
bodies  supported  by  the  muddy  bank.  Up  and 
down  the  lines,  and  through  the  fords  of  the 
streams,  mounted  aides  drove  their  horses  at  a 
gallop,  as  conspicuous  a  target  as  the  steeple  on 
a  church,  and  one  after  another  paid  the  price  of 
his  position  and  fell  from  his  horse  wounded  or 
dead.  Captain  Mills  fell  as  he  was  giving  an 
order,  shot  through  the  forehead  behind  both 
eyes;  Captain  O'Neill,  of  the  Rough  Riders,  as  he 
said,  "There  is  no  Spanish  bullet  made  that  can 
kill  me."  Steel,  Swift,  Henry,  each  of  them  was 
shot  out  of  his  saddle. 

Hidden  in  the  trees  above  the  streams,  and 
above  the  trail,  sharp-shooters  and  guerillas  added 
a  fresh  terror  to  the  wounded.  There  was  no 
hiding  from  them.  Their  bullets  came  from  every 
side.  Their  invisible  smoke  helped  to  keep  their 
hiding-places  secret,  and  in  the  incessant  shriek  of 
shrapnel  and  the  spit  of  the  Mausers,  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  locate  the  reports  of  their  rifles.  They 
spared  neither  the  wounded  nor  recognized  the 
Red  Cross;  they  killed  the  surgeons  and  the 

89 


The  Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill 

• 

stewards  carrying  the  litters,  and  killed  the 
wounded  men  on  the  litters.  A  guerilla  in  a  tree 
above  us  shot  one  of  the  Rough  Riders  in  the 
breast  while  I  was  helping  him  carry  Captain 
Morton  Henry  to  the  dressing-station,  the  ball 
passing  down  through  him,  and  a  second  shot, 
from  the  same  tree,  barely  missed  Henry  as  he 
lay  on  the  ground  where  we  had  dropped  him. 
He  was  already  twice  wounded  and  so  covered 
with  blood  that  no  one  could  have  mistaken  his 
condition.  The  surgeons  at  work  along  the 
stream  dressed  the  wounds  with  one  eye  cast 
aloft  at  the  trees.  It  was  not  the  Mauser  bullets 
they  feared,  though  they  passed  continuously,  but 
too  high  to  do  their  patients  further  harm,  but 
the  bullets  of  the  sharp-shooters  which  struck  fairly 
in  among  them,  splashing  in  the  water  and  scat- 
tering the  pebbles.  The  sounds  of  the  two  bullets 
were  as  different  as  is  the  sharp  pop  of  a  soda- 
water  bottle  from  the  buzzing  of  an  angry  wasp. 

For  a  time  it  seemed  as  though  every  second 
man  was  either  killed  or  wounded;  one  came  upon 
them  lying  behind  the  bush,  under  which  they 
had  crawled  with  some  strange  idea  that  it  would 
protect  them,  or  crouched  under  the  bank  of 
the  stream,  or  lying  on  their  stomachs  and  lap- 
ping up  the  water  with  the  eagerness  of  thirsty 

90 


The  Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill 

dogs.  As  to  their  suffering,  the  wounded  were 
magnificently  silent,  they  neither  complained  nor 
groaned  nor  cursed. 

"I've  got  a  punctured  tire,"  was  their  grim 
answer  to  inquiries.  White  men  and  colored 
men,  veterans  and  recruits  and  volunteers,  each 
lay  waiting  for  the  battle  to  begin  or  to  end  so 
that  he  might  be  carried  away  to  safety,  for  the 
wounded  were  in  as  great  danger  after  they  were 
hit  as  though  they  were  in  the  firing  line,  but 
none  questioned  nor  complained. 

I  came  across  Lieutenant  Roberts,  of  the  Tenth 
Cavalry,  lying  under  the  roots  of  a  tree  beside 
the  stream  with  three  of  his  colored  troopers 
stretched  around  him.  He  was  shot  through  the 
intestines,  and  each  of  the  three  men  with  him 
was  shot  in  the  arm  or  leg.  They  had  been  over- 
looked or  forgotten,  and  we  stumbled  upon  them 
only  by  the  accident  of  losing  our  way.  They 
had  no  knowledge  as  to  how  the  battle  was  going 
or  where  their  comrades  were  or  where  the  ene- 
my was.  At  any  moment,  for  all  they  knew,  the 
Spaniards  might  break  through  the  bushes  about 
them.  It  was  a  most  lonely  picture,  the  young 
lieutenant,  half  naked,  and  wet  with  his  own 
blood,  sitting  upright  beside  the  empty  stream, 
and  his  three  followers  crouching  at  his  feet  like 


The  Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill 

three  faithful  watch-dogs,  each  wearing  his  red 
badge  of  courage,  with  his  black  skin  tanned  to 
a  haggard  gray,  and  with  his  eyes  fixed  patiently 
on  the  white  lips  of  his  officer.  When  the  white 
soldiers  with  me  offered  to  carry  him  back  to  the 
dressing-station,  the  negroes  resented  it  stiffly. 
"If  the  Lieutenant  had  been  able  to  move,  we 
would  have  carried  him  away  long  ago,"  said  the 
sergeant,  quite  overlooking  the  fact  that  his  arm 
was  shattered. 

"Oh,  don't  bother  the  surgeons  about  me," 
Roberts  added,  cheerfully.  "They  must  be  very 
busy.  I  can  wait." 

As  yet,  with  all  these  killed  and  wounded, 
we  had  accomplished  nothing — except  to  obey 
orders — which  was  to  await  further  orders.  The 
observation  balloon  hastened  the  end.  It  came 
blundering  down  the  trail,  and  stopped  the  ad- 
vance of  the  First  and  Tenth  Cavalry,  and  was 
sent  up  directly  over  the  heads  of  our  men  to 
observe  what  should  have  been  observed  a  week 
before  by  scouts  and  reconnoitring  parties.  A 
balloon,  two  miles  to  the  rear,  and  high  enough 
in  the  air  to  be  out  of  range  of  the  enemy's  fire 
may  some  day  prove  itself  to  be  of  use  and  value. 
But  a  balloon  on  the  advance  line,  and  only  fifty 
feet  above  the  tops  of  the  trees,  was  merely  an 

92 


The  Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill 

invitation  to  the  enemy  to  kill  everything  be- 
neath it.  And  the  enemy  responded  to  the  invi- 
tation. A  Spaniard  might  question  if  he  could 
hit  a  man,  or  a  number  of  men,  hidden  in  the 
bushes,  but  had  no  doubt  at  all  as  to  his  ability 
to  hit  a  mammoth  glistening  ball  only  six  hun- 
dred yards  distant,  and  so  all  the  trenches  fired 
at  it  at  once,  and  the  men  of  the  First  and  Tenth, 
packed  together  directly  behind  it,  received  the 
full  force  of  the  bullets.  The  men  lying  directly 
belovr  it  received  the  shrapnel  which  was  timed 
to  hit  it,  and  which  at  last,  fortunately,  did  hit 
it.  This  was  endured  for  an  hour,  an  hour  of 
such  hell  of  fire  and  heat,  that  the  heat  in  itself, 
had  there  been  no  bullets,  would  have  been  re- 
membered for  its  cruelty.  Men  gasped  on  their 
backs,  like  fishes  in  the  bottom  of  a  boat,  their 
heads  burning  inside  and  out,  their  limbs  too 
heavy  to  move.  They  had  been  rushed  here  and 
rushed  there  wet  with  sweat  and  wet  with  ford- 
ing the  streams,  under  a  sun  that  would  have 
made  moving  a  fan  an  effort,  and  they  lay  pros- 
trate, gasping  at  the  hot  air,  with  faces  aflame, 
and  their  tongues  sticking  out,  and  their  eyes 
rolling.  All  through  this  the  volleys  from  the 
rifle-pits  sputtered  and  rattled,  and  the  bullets 
sang  continuously  like  the  wind  through  the  rig- 

93 


The  Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill 

ging  in  a  gale,  shrapnel  whined  and  broke,  and 
still  no  order  came  from  General  Shafter. 

Captain  Howse,  of  General  Sumner's  staff, 
rode  down  the  trail  to  learn  what  had  delayed 
the  First  and  Tenth,  and  was  hailed  by  Colonel 
Derby,  who  was  just  descending  from  the  shat- 
tered balloon. 

"I  saw  men  up  there  on  those  hills,'*  Colonel 
Derby  shouted;  "they  are  firing  at  our  troops/* 
That  was  part  of  the  information  contributed  by 
the  balloon.  Captain  Howse*s  reply  is  lost  to 
history. 

General  Kent's  division,  which,  according  to 
the  plan,  was  to  have  been  held  in  reserve,  had 
been  rushed  up  in  the  rear  of  the  First  and  Tenth, 
and  the  Tenth  had  deployed  in  skirmish  order 
to  the  right.  The  trail  was  now  completely 
blocked  by  Kent's  division.  Lawton's  division, 
which  was  to  have  re-enforced  on  the  right,  had 
not  appeared,  but  incessant  firing  from  the  direc- 
tion of  El  Caney  showed  that  he  and  Chaffee 
were  fighting  mightily.  The  situation  was  desper- 
ate. Our  troops  could  not  retreat,  as  the  trail 
for  two  miles  behind  them  was  wedged  with 
men.  They  could  not  remain  where  they  were, 
for  they  were  being  shot  to  pieces.  There  was 
only  one  thing  they  could  do — go  forward  and 

94 


The  Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill 

take  the  San  Juan  hills  by  assault.  It  was  as 
desperate  as  the  situation  itself.  To  charge 
earthworks  held  by  men  with  modern  rifles,  and 
using  modern  artillery,  until  after  the  earthworks 
have  been  shaken  by  artillery,  and  to  attack 
them  in  advance  and  not  in  the  flanks,  are  both 
impossible  military  propositions.  But  this  cam- 
paign had  not  been  conducted  according  to  mil- 
itary rules,  and  a  series  of  military  blunders 
had  brought  seven  thousand  American  soldiers 
into  a  chute  of  death  from  which  there  was  no 
escape  except  by  taking  the  enemy  who  held 
it  by  the  throat  and  driving  him  out  and  beat- 
ing him  down.  So  the  generals  of  divisions  and 
brigades  stepped  back  and  relinquished  their  com- 
mand to  the  regimental  officers  and  the  enlisted 
men. 

"We  can  do  nothing  more,"  they  virtually  said. 
"There  is  the  enemy." 

Colonel  Roosevelt,  on  horseback,  broke  from 
the  woods  behind  the  line  of  the  Ninth,  and  rind- 
ing its  men  lying  in  his  way,  shouted :  "  If  you 
don't  wish  to  go  forward,  let  my  men  pass/*  The 
junior  officers  of  the  Ninth,  with  their  negroes, 
instantly  sprang  into  line  with  the  Rough  Riders, 
and  charged  at  the  blue  block-house  on  the  right. 

I  speak  of  Roosevelt  first  because,  with  Gen- 
95 


The  Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill 

eral  Hawkins,  who  led  Kent's  division,  notably 
the  Sixth  and  Sixteenth  Regulars,  he  was,  without 
doubt,  the  most  conspicuous  figure  in  the  charge. 
General  Hawkins,  with  hair  as  white  as  snow, 
and  yet  far  in  advance  of  men  thirty  years  his 
junior,  was  so  noble  a  sight  that  you  felt  inclined 
to  pray  for  his  safety;  on  the  other  hand,  Roose- 
velt, mounted  high  on  horseback,  and  charging 
the  rifle-pits  at  a  gallop  and  quite  alone,  made 
you  feel  that  you  would  like  to  cheer.  He  wore 
on  his  sombrero  a  blue  polka-dot  handkerchief,  a 
la  Havelock,  which,  as  he  advanced,  floated  out 
straight  behind  his  head,  like  a  guidon.  After- 
ward, the  men  of  his  regiment  who  followed  this 
flag,  adopted  a  polka-dot  handkerchief  as  the 
badge  of  the  Rough  Riders.  These  two  officers 
were  notably  conspicuous  in  the  charge,  but  no 
one  can  claim  that  any  two  men,  or  any  one  man, 
was  more  brave  or  more  daring,  or  showed  great- 
er courage  in  that  slow,  stubborn  advance,  than 
did  any  of  the  others.  Some  one  asked  one  of 
the  officers  if  he  had  any  difficulty  in  making  his 
men  follow  him.  "No,"  he  answered,  "I  had 
some  difficulty  in  keeping  up  with  them."  As  one 
of  the  brigade  generals  said:  "San  Juan  was 
won  by  the  regimental  officers  and  men.  We 
had  as  little  to  do  as  the  referee  at  a  prize-fight 

96 


The  Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill 

who  calls  'time.'  We  called  'time'  and  they 
did  the  fighting." 

I  have  seen  many  illustrations  and  pictures  of 
this  charge  on  the  San  Juan  hills,  but  none  of 
them  seem  to  show  it  just  as  I  remember  it.  In 
the  picture-papers  the  men  are  running  uphill 
swiftly  and  gallantly,  in  regular  formation,  rank 
after  rank,  with  flags  flying,  their  eyes  aflame, 
and  their  hair  streaming,  their  bayonets  fixed,  in 
long,  brilliant  lines,  an  invincible,  overpowering 
weight  of  numbers.  Instead  of  which  I  think 
the  thing  which  impressed  one  the  most,  when 
our  men  started  from  cover,  was  that  they  were 
so  few.  It  seemed  as  if  some  one  had  made  an 
awful  and  terrible  mistake.  One's  instinct  was 
to  call  to  them  to  come  back.  You  felt  that 
some  one  had  blundered  and  that  these  few  men 
were  blindly  following  out  some  madman's  mad 
order.  It  was  not  heroic  then,  it  seemed  merely 
absurdly  pathetic.  The  pity  of  it,  the  folly  of  such 
a  sacrifice  was  what  held  you. 

They  had  no  glittering  bayonets,  they  were 
not  massed  in  regular  array.  There  were  a  few 
men  in  advance,  bunched  together,  and  creeping 
up  a  steep,  sunny  hill,  the  tops  of  which  roared 
and  flashed  with  flame.  The  men  held  their  guns 
pressed  across  their  chests  and  stepped  heavily 

97 


The  Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill 

as  they  climbed.  Behind  these  first  few,  spread- 
ing out  like  a  fan,  were  single  lines  of  men,  slip- 
ping and  scrambling  in  the  smooth  grass,  mov- 
ing forward  with  difficulty,  as  though  they  were 
wading  waist  high  through  water,  moving  slowly, 
carefully,  with  strenuous  effort.  It  was  much 
more  wonderful  than  any  swinging  charge  could 
have  been.  They  walked  to  greet  death  at  every 
step,  many  of  them,  as  they  advanced,  sinking 
suddenly  or  pitching  forward  and  disappearing 
in  the  high  grass,  but  the  others  waded  on,  stub- 
bornly, forming  a  thin  blue  line  that  kept  creep- 
ing higher  and  higher  up  the  hill.  It  was  as  in- 
evitable as  the  rising  tide.  It  was  a  miracle  of 
self-sacrifice,  a  triumph  of  bull-dog  courage,  which 
one  watched  breathless  with  wonder.  The  fire  of 
the  Spanish  riflemen,  who  still  stuck  bravely  to 
their  posts,  doubled  and  trebled  in  fierceness,  the 
crests  of  the  hills  crackled  and  burst  in  amazed 
roars,  and  rippled  with  waves  of  tiny  flame.  But 
the  blue  line  crept  steadily  up  and  on,  and  then, 
near  the  top,  the  broken  fragments  gathered  to- 
gether with  a  sudden  burst  of  speed,  the  Spaniards 
appeared  for  a  moment  outlined  against  the  sky 
and  poised  for  instant  flight,  fired  a  last  volley, 
and  fled  before  the  swift-moving  wave  that  leaped 
and  sprang  after  them. 

9* 


The  Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill 

The  men  of  the  Ninth  and  the  Rough  Riders 
rushed  to  the  block-house  together,  the  men  of  the 
Sixth,  of  the  Third,  of  the  Tenth  Cavalry,  of  the 
Sixth  and  Sixteenth  Infantry,  fell  on  their  faces 
along  the  crest  of  the  hills  beyond,  and  opened 
upon  the  vanishing  enemy.  They  drove  the  yel- 
low silk  flags  of  the  cavalry  and  the  flag  of  their 
country  into  the  soft  earth  of  the  trenches,  and 
then  sank  down  and  looked  back  at  the  road 
they  had  climbed  and  swung  their  hats  in  the  air. 
And  from  far  overhead,  from  these  few  figures 
perched  on  the  Spanish  rifle-pits,  with  their  flags 
planted  among  the  empty  cartridges  of  the  enemy, 
and  overlooking  the  walls  of  Santiago,  came, 
faintly,  the  sound  of  a  tired,  broken  cheer. 


Ill 

THE  TAKING  OF  COAMO 

THIS  is  the  inside  story  of  the  surrender,  dur- 
ing the  Spanish  War,  of  the  town  of  Coamo. 
It  is  written  by  the  man  to  whom  the  town  sur- 
rendered. Immediately  after  the  surrender  this 
same  man  became  Military  Governor  of  Coamo. 
He  held  office  for  fully  twenty  minutes. 

Before  beginning  this  story  the  reader  must 
forget  all  he  may  happen  to  know  of  this  particu- 
lar triumph  of  the  Porto  Rican  Expedition.  He 
must  forget  that  the  taking  of  Coamo  has  always 
been  credited  to  Major-General  James  H.  Wilson, 
who  on  that  occasion  commanded  Captain  An- 
derson's Battery,  the  Sixteenth  Pennsylvania, 
Troop  C  of  Brooklyn,  and  under  General  Ernst, 
the  Second  and  Third  Wisconsin  Volunteers.  He 
must  forget  that  in  the  records  of  the  War  Depart- 
ment all  the  praise,  and  it  is  of  the  highest,  for 
this  victory  is  bestowed  upon  General  Wilson  and 
his  four  thousand  soldiers.  Even  the  writer  of 
this,  when  he  cabled  an  account  of  the  event  to  his 
paper,  gave,  with  every  one  else,  the  entire  credit 
to  General  Wison.  And  ever  since  his  conscience 


101 


The  Taking  of  Coamo 

has  upbraided  him.  His  only  claim  for  tolerance 
as  a  war  correspondent  has  been  that  he  always 
has  stuck  to  the  facts,  and  now  he  feels  that  in  the 
sacred  cause  of  history  his  friendship  and  admira- 
tion for  General  Wilson,  that  veteran  of  the  Civil, 
Philippine,  and  Chinese  Wars,  must  no  longer 
stand  in  the  way  of  his  duty  as  an  accurate  re- 
porter. He  no  longer  can  tell  a  lie.  He  must  at 
last  own  up  that  he  himself  captured  Coamo. 

On  the  morning  of  the  gth  of  August,  1898,  the 
Sixteenth  Pennsylvania  Volunteers  arrived  on  the 
outskirts  of  that  town.  In  order  to  get  there  they 
had  spent  the  night  in  crawling  over  mountain 
trails  and  scrambling  through  streams  and  ra- 
vines. It  was  General  Wilson's  plan  that  by  this 
flanking  night  march  the  Sixteenth  Pennsylvania 
would  reach  the  road  leading  from  Coamo  to  San 
Juan  in  time  to  cut  off  the  retreat  of  the  Spanish 
garrison,  when  General  Wilson,  with  the  main 
body,  attacked  it  from  the  opposite  side. 

At  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  General  Wilson 
began  the  frontal  attack  by  turning  loose  the 
artillery  on  a  block-house,  which  threatened  his 
approach,  and  by  advancing  the  Wisconsin  Vol- 
unteers. The  cavalry  he  sent  to  the  right  to  cap- 
ture Los  Banos.  At  eight  o'clock,  from  where  the 
main  body  rested,  two  miles  from  Coamo,  we 

102 


Officers  watching  the  artillery  play  on  Coamo 

Drawn  by  !•'.  C.  Yulin  lr..m  a  photograph  by  the  Author 


The  Taking  of  Coamo 

could  hear  the  Sixteenth  Pennsylvania  open  its 
attack  and  instantly  become  hotly  engaged.  The 
enemy  returned  the  fire  fiercely,  and  the  firing  from 
both  sides  at  once  became  so  severe  that  it  was 
evident  the  Pennsylvania  Volunteers  either  would 
take  the  town  without  the  main  body,  or  that 
they  would  greatly  need  its  assistance.  The  ar- 
tillery was  accordingly  advanced  one  thousand 
yards  and  the  infantry  was  hurried  forward. 
The  Second  Wisconsin  approached  Coamo  along 
the  main  road  from  Ponce,  the  Third  Wisconsin 
through  fields  of  grass  to  the  right  of  the  road, 
until  the  two  regiments  met  at  the  ford  by  which 
the  Banos  road  crosses  the  Coamo  River.  But 
before  they  met,  from  a  position  near  the  artillery, 
I  had  watched  through  my  glasses  the  Second 
Wisconsin  with  General  Ernst  at  its  head  advan- 
cing along  the  main  road,  and  as,  when  I  saw  them, 
they  were  near  the  river,  I  guessed  they  would 
continue  across  the  bridge  and  that  they  soon 
would  be  in  the  town. 

As  the  firing  from  the  Sixteenth  still  continued, 
it  seemed  obvious  that  General  Ernst  would  be 
the  first  general  officer  to  enter  Coamo,  and  to 
receive  its  surrender.  I  had  never  seen  five  thou- 
sand people  surrender  to  one  man,  and  it  seemed 
that,  if  I  were  to  witness  that  ceremony,  my  best 

103 


The  Taking  of  Coamo 

plan  was  to  abandon  the  artillery  and,  as  quickly 
as  possible,  pursue  the  Second  Wisconsin.  I  did 
not  want  to  share  the  spectacle  of  the  surrender 
with  my  brother  correspondents,  so  I  tried  to  steal 
away  from  the  three  who  were  present.  They 
were  Thomas  F.  Millard,  Walstein  Root  of  the 
Sun,  and  Horace  Thompson.  By  dodging  through 
a  coffee  central  I  came  out  a  half  mile  from  them 
and  in  advance  of  the  Third  Wisconsin.  There  I 
encountered  two  "boy  officers,"  Captain  John  C. 
Breckenridge  and  Lieutenant  Fred.  S.  Titus,  who 
had  temporarily  abandoned  their  thankless  duties 
in  the  Commissariat  Department  in  order  to  seek 
death  or  glory  in  the  skirmish-line.  They  wanted 
to  know  where  I  was  going,  and  when  I  explained, 
they  declared  that  when  Coamo  surrendered  they 
also  were  going  to  be  among  those  present. 

So  we  slipped  away  from  the  main  body  and 
rode  off  as  an  independent  organization.  But 
from  the  bald  ridge,  where  the  artillery  was  still 
hammering  the  town,  the  three  correspondents  and 
Captain  Alfred  Paget,  Her  Majesty's  naval  attache, 
observed  our  attempt  to  steal  a  march  on  General 
Wilson's  forces,  and  pursued  us  and  soon  over- 
took us. 

We  now  were  seven,  or  to  be  exact,  eight,  for 
with  Mr.  Millard  was  "Jimmy,"  who  in  times  of 

104 


The  Taking  of  Coamo 

peace  sells  papers  in  Herald  Square,  and  in  times 
of  war  carries  Mr.  Millard's  copy  to  the  press 
post.  We  were  much  nearer  the  ford  than  the 
bridge,  so  we  waded  the  "drift "  and  started  on  a 
gallop  along  the  mile  of  military  road  that  lay 
between  us  and  Coamo.  The  firing  from  the 
Sixteenth  Pennsylvania  had  slackened,  but  as  we 
advanced  it  became  sharper,  more  insistent,  and 
seemed  to  urge  us  to  greater  speed.  Across  the 
road  were  dug  rough  rifle-pits  which  had  the  look 
of  having  been  but  that  moment  abandoned. 
What  had  been  intended  for  the  breakfast  of  the 
enemy  was  burning  in  pots  over  tiny  fires,  little 
heaps  of  cartridges  lay  in  readiness  upon  the 
edges  of  each  pit,  and  an  arm-chair,  in  which  a 
sentry  had  kept  a  comfortable  lookout,  lay  sprawl- 
ing in  the  middle  of  the  road.  The  huts  that 
faced  it  were  empty.  The  only  living  things  we 
saw  were  the  chickens  and  pigs  in  the  kitchen- 
gardens.  On  either  hand  was  every  evidence  of 
hasty  and  panic-stricken  flight.  We  rejoiced  at 
these  evidences  of  the  fact  that  the  Wisconsin  Vol- 
unteers had  swept  all  before  them.  Our  rejoicings 
were  not  entirely  unselfish.  It  was  so  quiet  ahead 
that  some  one  suggested  the  town  had  already 
surrendered.  But  that  would  have  been  too  bitter 
a  disappointment,  and  as  the  firing  from  the  fur- 


The  Taking  of  Coamo 

ther  side  of  Coamo  still  continued,  we  refused  to 
believe  it,  and  whipped  the  ponies  into  greater 
haste.  We  were  now  only  a  quarter  of  a  mile  dis- 
tant from  the  built-up  portion  of  Coamo,  where 
the  road  turned  sharply  into  the  main  street  of  the 
town. 

Captain  Paget,  who  in  the  absence  of  the  Brit- 
ish military  attache  on  account  of  sickness,  accom- 
panied the  army  as  a  guest  of  General  Wilson,  gave 
way  to  thoughts  of  etiquette. 

"Will  General  Wilson  think  I  should  have 
waited  for  him?"  he  shouted.  The  words  were 
jolted  out  of  him  as  he  rose  in  the  saddle.  The 
noise  of  the  ponies'  hoofs  made  conversation  diffi- 
cult. I  shouted  back  that  the  presence  of  General 
Ernst  in  the  town  made  it  quite  proper  for  a  foreign 
attache  to  enter  it. 

"It  must  have  surrendered  by  now,"  I  shouted. 
"It's  been  half  an  hour  since  Ernst  crossed  the 
bridge." 

At  these  innocent  words,  all  my  companions 
tugged  violently  at  their  bridles  and  shouted 
"Whoa!" 

"Crossed  the  bridge?"  they  yelled.  "There  is 
no  bridge!  The  bridge  is  blown  up!  If  he 
hasn't  crossed  by  the  ford,  he  isn't  in  the  town!" 

Then,  in  my  turn,  I  shouted  "Whoa!" 
106 


The  Taking  of  Coamo 

But  by  now  the  Porto  Rican  ponies  had  de- 
cided that  this  was  the  race  of  their  lives,  and  each 
had  made  up  his  mind  that,  Mexican  bit  or  no 
Mexican  bit,  until  he  had  carried  his  rider  first 
into  the  town  of  Coamo,  he  would  not  be  halted. 
As  I  tugged  helplessly  at  my  Mexican  bit,  I  saw 
how  I  had  made  my  mistake.  The  volunteers, 
on  finding  the  bridge  destroyed,  instead  of  march- 
ing upon  Coamo  had  turned  to  the  ford,  the  same 
ford  which  we  had  crossed  half  an  hour  before  they 
reached  it.  They  now  were  behind  us.  Instead 
of  a  town  which  had  surrendered  to  a  thousand 
American  soldiers,  we,  seven  unarmed  men  and 
Jimmy,  were  being  swept  into  a  hostile  city  as  fast 
as  the  enemy's  ponies  could  take  us  there. 

Breckenridge  and  Titus  hastily  put  the  blame 
upon  me. 

"If  we  get  into  trouble  with  the  General  for 
this,"  they  shouted,  "it  will  be  your  fault.  You 
told  us  Ernst  was  in  the  town  with  a  thousand 
men." 

I  shouted  back  that  no  one  regretted  the  fact 
that  he  was  not  more  keenly  than  I  did  myself. 

Titus  and  Breckenridge  each  glanced  at  a  new, 
full-dress  sword. 

"We  might  as  well  go  in,"  they  shouted,  "and 
take  it  anyway!"  I  decided  that  Titus  and  Breck- 

107 


The  Taking  of  Coamo 

enridge  were  wasted  in  the  Commissariat  Depart- 
ment. 

The  three  correspondents  looked  more  comfort- 
able. 

"If  you  officers  go  in,"  they  cried,  "the  General 
can't  blame  us,"  and  they  dug  their  spurs  into  the 
ponies. 

"Wait!"  shouted  Her  Majesty's  representative. 
"That's  all  very  well  for  you  chaps,  but  what  pro- 
tects me  if  the  Admiralty  finds  out  I  have  led  a 
charge  on  a  Spanish  garrison?" 

But  Paget's  pony  refused  to  consider  the  feel- 
ings of  the  Lords  of  the  Admiralty.  As  success- 
fully Paget  might  have  tried  to  pull  back  a  row- 
boat  from  the  edge  of  Niagara.  And,  moreover, 
Millard,  in  order  that  Jimmy  might  be  the  first  to 
reach  Ponce  with  despatches,  had  mounted  him 
on  the  fastest  pony  in  the  bunch,  and  he  already 
was  far  in  the  lead.  His  sporting  instincts,  nursed 
in  the  pool-rooms  of  the  Tenderloin  and  at  Gut- 
tenburg,  had  sent  him  three  lengths  to  the  good. 
It  never  would  do  to  have  a  newsboy  tell  in  New 
York  that  he  had  beaten  the  correspondents  of 
the  papers  he  sold  in  the  streets;  nor  to  permit 
commissioned  officers  to  take  the  dust  of  one  who 
never  before  had  ridden  on  anything  but  a  cable 
car.  So  we  all  raced  forward  and,  bunched  to- 

108 


The  Taking  of  Coamo 

gether,  swept  into  the  main  street  of  Coamo.  It 
was  gratefully  empty.  There  were  no  American 
soldiers,  but,  then,  neither  were  there  any  Spanish 
soldiers.  Across  the  street  stretched  more  rifle- 
pits  and  barricades  of  iron  pipes,  but  in  sight  there 
was  neither  friend  nor  foe.  On  the  stones  of  the 
deserted  street  the  galloping  hoofs  sounded  like 
the  advance  of  a  whole  regiment  of  cavalry.  Their 
clatter  gave  us  a  most  comfortable  feeling.  We 
almost  could  imagine  the  towns-people  believing 
us  to  be  the  Rough  Riders  themselves  and  fleeing 
before  us. 

And  then,  the  empty  street  seemed  to  threaten 
an  ambush.  We  thought  hastily  of  sunken  mines, 
of  soldiers  crouching  behind  the  barriers,  behind 
the  houses  at  the  next  corner,  of  Mausers  covering 
us  from  the  latticed  balconies  overhead.  Until  at 
last,  when  the  silence  had  become  alert  and  men- 
acing, a  lonely  man  dashed  into  the  middle  of  the 
street,  hurled  a  white  flag  in  front  of  us,  and  then 
dived  headlong  under  the  porch  of  a  house.  The 
next  instant,  as  though  at  a  signal,  a  hundred  citi- 
zens, each  with  a  white  flag  in  both  hands,  ran  from 
cover,  waving  their  banners,  and  gasping  in  weak 
and  terror-shaken  tones,  "  Vivan  los  Americanos." 

We  tried  to  pull  up,  but  the  ponies  had  not 
yet  settled  among  themselves  which  of  us  had 

109 


The  Taking  of  Coamo 

won,  and  carried  us  to  the  extreme  edge  of  the 
town,  where  a  precipice  seemed  to  invite  them  to 
stop,  and  we  fell  off  into  the  arms  of  the  Porto 
Ricans.  They  brought  us  wine  in  tin  cans,  cigars, 
borne  in  the  aprons  and  mantillas  of  their  women- 
folk, and  demijohns  of  native  rum.  They  were 
abject,  trembling,  tearful.  They  made  one  in- 
stantly forget  that  the  moment  before  he  had  been 
extremely  frightened. 

One  of  them  spoke  to  me  the  few  words  of 
Spanish  with  which  I  had  an  acquaintance.  He 
told  me  he  was  the  Alcalde,  and  that  he  begged 
to  surrender  into  my  hands  the  town  of  Coamo. 
I  led  him  instantly  to  one  side.  I  was  afraid  that 
if  I  did  not  take  him  up  he  would  surrender  to 
Paget  or  to  Jimmy.  I  bade  him  conduct  me  to 
his  official  residence.  He  did  so,  and  gave  me 
the  key  to  the  cartel,  a  staff  of  office  of  gold  and 
ebony,  and  the  flag  of  the  town,  which  he  had  hid- 
den behind  his  writing-desk.  It  was  a  fine  Spanish 
flag  with  the  coat  of  arms  embroidered  in  gold. 
I  decided  that,  with  whatever  else  I  might  part, 
that  flag  would  always  be  mine,  that  the  chance  of 
my  again  receiving  the  surrender  of  a  town  of  five 
thousand  people  was  slender,  and  that  this  token 
would  be  wrapped  around  me  in  my  coffin.  I  ac- 
cordingly hid  it  in  my  poncho  and  strapped  it  to 

no 


The  Taking  of  Coamo 

my  saddle.  Then  I  appointed  a  hotel-keeper,  who 
spoke  a  little  English,  as  my  official  interpreter, 
and  told  the  Alcalde  that  I  was  now  Military  Gov- 
ernor, Mayor,  and  Chief  of  Police,  and  that  I 
wanted  the  seals  of  the  town.  He  gave  me  a  rub- 
ber stamp  with  a  coat  of  arms  cut  in  it,  and  I  wrote 
myself  three  letters,  which,  to  insure  their  safe 
arrival,  I  addressed  to  three  different  places,  and 
stamped  them  with  the  rubber  seals.  In  time  all 
three  reached  me,  and  I  now  have  them  as  docu- 
mentary proof  of  the  fact  that  for  twenty  minutes 
I  was  Military  Governor  and  Mayor  of  Coamo. 

During  that  brief  administration  I  detailed  Titus 
and  Breckenridge  to  wigwag  the  Sixteenth  Penn- 
sylvania that  we  had  taken  the  town,  and  that  it 
was  now  safe  for  them  to  enter.  In  order  to  com- 
promise Paget  they  used  his  red  silk  handkerchief. 
Root  I  detailed  to  conciliate  the  inhabitants  by 
drinking  with  every  one  of  them.  He  tells  me  he 
carried  out  my  instructions  to  the  letter.  I  also 
settled  one  assault  and  battery  case,  and  put  the 
chief  6ffender  under  arrest.  At  least,  I  told  the 
official  interpreter  to  inform  him  that  he  was 
under  arrest,  but  as  I  had  no  one  to  guard  him 
he  grew  tired  of  being  under  arrest  and  went  off 
to  celebrate  his  emancipation  from  the  rule  of 
Spain. 

in 


The  Taking  of  Coamo 

My  administration  came  to  an  end  in  twenty 
minutes,  when  General  Wilson  rode  into  Coamo 
at  the  head  of  his  staff  and  three  thousand  men. 
He  wore  a  white  helmet,  and  he  looked  the  part 
of  the  conquering  hero  so  satisfactorily  that  I  for- 
got I  was  Ma*yor  and  ran  out  into  the  street  to  snap 
a  picture  of  him.  He  looked  greatly  surprised  and 
asked  me  what  I  was  doing  in  his  town.  The 
tone  in  which  he  spoke  caused  me  to  decide  that, 
after  all,  I  would  not  keep  the  flag  of  Coamo.  I 
pulled  it  off  my  saddle  and  said:  "General,  it's 
too  long  a  story  to  tell  you  now,  but  here  is  the  flag 
of  the  town.  It's  the  first  Spanish  flag" — and  it 
was — "that  has  been  captured  in  Porto  Rico." 

General  Wilson  smiled  again  and  accepted  the 
flag.  He  and  about  four  thousand  other  soldiers 
think  it  belongs  to  them.  But  the  truth  will  out. 
Some  day  the  bestowal  on  the  proper  persons  of 
a  vote  of  thanks  from  Congress,  a  pension,  or  any 
other  trifle,  like  prize-money,  will  show  the  Ameri- 
can people  to  whom  that  flag  really  belongs. 

I  know  that  in  time  the  glorious  deed  of  the  seven 
heroes  of  Coamo,  or  eight,  if  you  include  "Jimmy," 
will  be  told  in  song  and  story.  Some  one  else  will 
write  the  song.  This  is  the  story. 


112 


IV 
THE  PASSING  OF  SAN  JUAN  HILL 

WHEN  I  was  a  boy  I  thought  battles  were 
fought  in  waste  places  selected  for  the  pur- 
pose. I  argued  from  the  fact  that  when  our  school 
nine  wished  to  play  ball  it  was  forced  into  the 
suburbs  to  search  for  a  vacant  lot.  I  thought  op- 
posing armies  also  marched  out  of  town  until  they 
reached  some  desolate  spot  where  there  were 
no  window  panes,  and  where  their  cannon-balls 
would  hurt  no  one  but  themselves.  Even  later, 
when  I  saw  battles  fought  among  villages,  artil- 
lery galloping  through  a  cornfield,  garden  walls 
breached  for  rifle  fire,  and  farm-houses  in  flames, 
it  always  seemed  as  though  the  generals  had  elected 
to  fight  in  such  surroundings  through  an  inex- 
cusable striving  after  theatrical  effect — as  though 
they  wished  to  furnish  the  war  correspondents 
with  a  chance  for  descriptive  writing.  With  the 
horrors  of  war  as  horrible  as  they  are  without  any 
aid  from  these  contrasts,  their  presence  always 
seemed  not  only  sinful  but  bad  art;  as  unneces- 
sary as  turning  a  red  light  on  the  dying  gladiator. 
There  are  so  many  places  which  are  scenes  set 


The  Passing  of  San  Juan  Hill 

apart  for  battles — places  that  look  as  though  Nat- 
ure had  condemned  them  for  just  such  sacrifices. 
Colenso,  with  its  bare  kopjes  and  great  stretch  of 
veldt,  is  one  of  these,  and  so,  also,  is  Spion  Kop, 
and,  in  Manchuria,  Nan  Shan  Hill.  The  photo- 
graphs have  made  all  of  us  familiar  with  the  vast, 
desolate  approaches  to  Port  Arthur.  These  are 
among  the  waste  places  of  the  earth — barren,  de- 
serted, fit  meeting  grounds  only  for  men  whose 
object  in  life  for  the  moment  is  to  kill  men.  Were 
you  shown  over  one  of  these  places,  and  told, 
"A  battle  was  fought  here,"  you  would  answer, 
"Why,  of  course!" 

But  down  in  Cuba,  outside  of  Santiago,  where 
the  United  States  army  fought  its  solitary  and 
modest  battle  with  Spain,  you  might  many  times 
pass  by  San  Juan  Hill  and  think  of  it,  if  you  thought 
of  it  at  all,  as  only  a  pretty  site  for  a  bungalow, 
as  a  place  obviously  intended  for  orchards  and 
gardens. 

On  July  ist,  twelve  years  ago,  when  the  Ameri- 
can army  came  upon  it  out  of  the  jungle  the  place 
wore  a  partial  disguise.  It  still  was  an  irregular 
ridge  of  smiling,  sunny  hills  with  fat,  comfortable 
curves,  and  in  some  places  a  steep,  straight  front. 
But  above  the  steepest,  highest  front  frowned  an 
aggressive  block-house,  and  on  all  the  slopes  and 

114 


The  Passing  of  San  Juan  Hill 

along  the  sky-line  were  rows  of  yellow  trenches, 
and  at  the  base  a  cruel  cat's  cradle  of  barbed  wire. 
It  was  like  the  face  of  a  pretty  woman  behind  the 
bars  of  a  visor.  I  find  that  on  the  day  of  the  fight 
twelve  years  ago  I  cabled  my  paper  that  San  Juan 
Hill  reminded  the  Americans  of  "a  sunny  orchard 
in  New  England."  That  was  how  it  may  have 
looked  when  the  regulars  were  climbing  up  the 
steep  front  to  capture  the  block-house,  and  when 
the  cavalry  and  Rough  Riders,  having  taken 
Kettle  Hill,  were  running  down  its  opposite  slope, 
past  the  lake,  to  take  that  crest  of  San  Juan  Hill 
which  lies  to  the  right  of  the  block-house.  It 
may  then  have  looked  like  a  sunny  New  England 
orchard,  but  before  night  fell  the  intrenching  tools 
had  lent  those  sunny  slopes  "a  fierce  and  terrible 
aspect."  And  after  that,  hour  after  hour,  and 
day  after  day,  we  saw  the  hill  eaten  up  by  our 
trenches,  hidden  by  a  vast  laundry  of  shelter  tents, 
and  torn  apart  by  bomb-proofs,  their  jutting  roofs 
of  logs  and  broken  branches  weighed  down  by 
earth  and  stones  and  looking  like  the  pit  mouths  to 
many  mines.  That  probably  is  how  most  of  the 
American  army  last  saw  San  Juan  Hill,  and  that 
probably  is  how  it  best  remembers  it — as  a  fortified 
camp.  That  was  twelve  years  ago.  When  I 
revisited  it,  San  Juan  Hill  was  again  a  sunny, 

"5 


The  Passing  of  San  Juan  Hill 

smiling  farm  land,  the  trenches  planted  with  vege- 
tables, the  roofs  of  the  bomb-proofs  fallen  in  and 
buried  beneath  creeping  vines,  and  the  barbed- 
wire  entanglements  holding  in  check  only  the 
browsing  cattle. 

*San  Juan  Hill  is  not  a  solitary  hill,  but  the  most 
prominent  of  a  ridge  of  hills,  with  Kettle  Hill  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  away  on  the  edge  of  the  jungle 
and  separated  from  the  ridge  by  a  tiny  lake.  In 
the  local  nomenclature  Kettle  Hill,  which  is  the 
name  given  to  it  by  the  Rough  Riders,  has  always 
been  known  as  San  Juan  Hill,  with  an  added 
name  to  distinguish  it  from  the  other  San  Juan 
Hill  of  greater  renown. 

The  days  we  spent  on  those  hills  were  so  rich  in 
incident  and  interest  and  were  filled  with  moments 
of  such  excitement,  of  such  pride  in  one's  fellow- 
countrymen,  of  pity  for  the  hurt  and  dying,  of 
laughter  and  good-fellowship,  that  one  supposed 
he  might  return  after  even  twenty  years  and  recog- 
nize every  detail  of  the  ground.  But  a  shorter 
time  has  made  startling  and  confusing  changes. 
Now  a  visitor  will  find  that  not  until  after  several 
different  visits,  and  by  walking  and  riding  foot  by 
foot  over  the  hills,  can  he  make  them  fall  into 
line  as  he  thinks  he  once  knew  them.  Immedi- 
ately around  San  Juan  Hill  itself  there  has  been 

116 


The  Passing  of  San  Juan  Hill 

some  attempt  made  to  preserve  the  ground  as  a 
public  park.  A  barbed-wire  fence,  with  a  gate- 
way, encircles  the  block-house,  which  has  been 
converted  into  a  home  for  the  caretaker  of  the 
park,  and  then,  skirting  the  road  to  Santiago 
to  include  the  tree  under  which  the  surrender 
was  arranged,  stretches  to  the  left  of  the  block- 
house to  protect  a  monument.  This  monument 
was  erected  by  Americans  to  commemorate  the 
battle.  It  is  now  rapidly  falling  to  pieces,  but 
there  still  is  enough  of  it  intact  to  show  the 
pencilled  scribblings  and  autographs  of  tourists 
who  did  not  take  part  in  the  battle,  but  who  in 
this  public  manner  show  that  they  approve  of  its 
results.  The  public  park  is  less  than  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  square.  Except  for  it  no  other  effort 
has  been  made  either  by  Cubans  or  Americans 
to  designate  the  lines  that  once  encircled  and 
menaced  Santiago,  and  Nature,  always  at  her 
best  under  a  tropical  sun,  has  done  all  in  her 
power  to  disguise  and  forever  obliterate  the  scene 
of  the  army's  one  battle.  Those  features  which 
still  remain  unchanged  are  very  few.  The  Treaty 
Tree,  now  surrounded  by  a  tall  fence,  is  one,  the 
block-house  is  another.  The  little  lake  in  which, 
even  when  the  bullets  were  dropping,  the  men 
used  to  bathe  and  wash  their  clothes,  the  big 

117 


The  Passing  of  San  Juan  Hill 

iron  sugar  kettle  that  gave  a  new  name  to  Kettle 
Hill,  and  here  and  there  a  trench  hardly  deeper 
than  a  ploughed  furrow,  and  nearly  hidden  by 
growing  plants,  are  the  few  landmarks  that  remain. 
Of  the  camps  of  Generals  Chaffee,  Lawton, 
Bates,  Sumner,  and  Wheeler,  of  Colonels  Leonard 
<Wood  and  Theodore  Roosevelt,  there  are  but 
the  slightest  traces.  The  Bloody  Bend,  as  some 
call  it,  in  the  San  Juan  River,  as  some  call  that 
stream,  seems  to  have  entirely  disappeared.  At 
least,  it  certainly  was  not  where  it  should  have  been, 
and  the  place  the  hotel  guides  point  out  to  unsus- 
pecting tourists  bears  not  the  slightest  physical  re- 
semblance to  that  ford.  In  twelve  years,  during 
one  of  which  there  has  been  in  Santiago  the  most 
severe  rainfall  in  sixty  years,  the  San  Juan  stream 
has  carried  away  its  banks  and  the  trees  that 
lined  them,  and  the  trails  that  should  mark  where 
the  ford  once  crossed  have  so  altered  and  so  many 
new  ones  have  been  added,  that  the  exact  location 
of  the  once  famous  dressing  station  is  now  most 
difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  determine.  To  es- 
tablish the  sites  of  the  old  camping  grounds  is 
but  little  less  difficult.  The  head-quarters  of  Gen- 
eral Wheeler  are  easy  to  recognize,  for  the  reason 
that  the  place  selected  was  in  a  hollow,  and  the 
most  unhealthy  spot  along  the  five  miles  of  in- 

118 


The  Passing  of  San  Juan  Hill 

trenchments.  It  is  about  thirty  yards  from  where 
the  road  turns  to  rise  over  the  ridge  to  Santiago, 
and  all  the  water  from  the  hill  pours  into  it  as  into 
a  rain  barrel.  It  was  here  that  Troop  G,  Third 
Cavalry,  under  Major  Hardee,  as  it  was  Wheeler's 
escort,  was  forced  to  bivouac,  and  where  one-third 
of  its  number  came  down  with  fever.  The  camp 
of  General  Sam  Sumner  was  some  sixty  yards  to 
the  right  of  the  head-quarters  of  General  Wheeler, 
on  the  high  shoulder  of  the  hill  just  above  the 
camp  of  the  engineers,  who  were  on  the  side  of  the 
road  opposite.  The  camps  of  Generals  Chaffee, 
Lawton,  Hawkins,  Ludlow,  and  the  positions 
and  trenches  taken  and  held  by  the  different  regi- 
ments under  them  one  can  place  only  relatively. 
One  reason  for  this  is  that  before  our  army  at- 
tacked the  hills  all  the  underbrush  and  small 
trees  that  might  conceal  the  advance  of  our  men 
had  been  cleared  away  by  the  Spaniards,  leaving 
the  hill,  except  for  the  high  crest,  comparatively 
bare.  To-day  the  hills  are  thick  with  young  trees 
and  enormous  bushes.  The  alteration  in  the 
landscape  is  as  marked  as  is  the  difference  be- 
tween ground  cleared  for  golf  and  the  same  spot 
planted  with  corn  and  fruit-trees. 

Of  all  the  camps,  the  one  that  to-day  bears  the 
strongest  evidences  of  its  occupation  is  that  of  the 

119 


The  Passing  of  San  Juan  Hill 

Rough  Riders.  A  part  of  the  camp  of  that  regi- 
ment, which  was  situated  on  the  ridge  some  hun- 
dred feet  from  the  Santiago  road,  was  pitched 
under  a  clump  of  shade  trees,  and  to-day,  even 
after  seven  years,  the  trunks  of  these  trees  bear 
the  names  and  initials  of  the  men  who  camped 
beneath  them.*  These  men  will  remember  that 
when  they  took  this  hill  they  found  that  the  fortifi- 
cations beneath  the  trees  were  partly  made  from 
the  foundations  of  an  adobe  house.  The  red 
tiles  from  its  roof  still  litter  the  ground.  These 
tiles  and  the  names  cut  in  the  bark  of  the  trees 
determine  absolutely  the  site  of  one-half  of  the 
camp,  but  the  other  half,  where  stood  Tiffany's 
quick-firing  gun  and  Parker's  Catling,  has  been 
almost  obliterated.  The  tree  under  which  Colonel 
Roosevelt  pitched  his  tent  I  could  not  discover, 
and  the  trenches  in  which  he  used  to  sit  with  his 
officers  and  with  the  officers  from  the  regiments 
of  the  regular  army  are  now  levelled  to  make  a 
kitchen-garden.  Sometimes  the  ex-President  is 
said  to  have  too  generously  given  office  and  promo- 
tion to  the  friends  he  made  in  Cuba.  These  men 

*  Some  of  the  names  and  initials  on  the  trees  are  as  follows:  J. 
P.  Allen;  Lynch;  Luke  Steed;  Happy  Mack,  Rough  Riders;  Rus- 
sell; Ward;  E.  M.  Lewis,  C,  gth  Cav.;  Alex;  E.  K.  T.;  J.  P.  E.; 
W.  N.  D.;  R.  D.  R.;  I.  W.  S.,  5th  U.  S.;  J.  M.  B.;  J.  M.  T., 
C,  9th. 


1 2O 


The  Passing  of  San  Juan  Hill 

he  met  in  the  trenches  were  then  not  necessarily 
his  friends.  To-day  they  are  not  necessarily  his 
friends.  They  are  the  men  the  free  life  of  the 
rifle-pits  enabled  him  to  know  and  to  understand 
as  the  settled  relations  of  home  life  and  peace  would 
tfever  have  permitted.  At  that  time  none  of  them 
guessed  that  the  "amateur  colonel,"  to  whom  they 
talked  freely  as  to  a  comrade,  would  be  their 
Commander-in-Chief.  They  did  not  suspect  that 
he  would  become  even  the  next  Governor  of  New 
York,  certainly  not  that  in  a  few  years  he  would 
be  the  President  of  the  United  States.  So  they 
showed  themselves  to  him  frankly,  unconsciously. 
They  criticised,  argued,  disagreed,  and  he  became 
familiar  with  the  views,  character,  and  worth  of 
each,  and  remembered.  The  seeds  planted  in 
those  half-obliterated  trenches  have  borne  greater 
results  than  ever  will  the  kitchen-garden. 

The  kitchen-garden  is  immediately  on  the  crest 
of  the  hill,  and  near  it  a  Cuban  farmer  has  built  a 
shack  of  mud  and  twigs  and  cultivated  several 
acres  of  land.  On  Kettle  Hill  there  are  three 
more  such  shacks,  and  over  all  the  hills  the  new 
tenants  have  strung  stout  barbed-wire  fences  and 
made  new  trails  and  reared  wooden  gateways. 
It  was  curious  to  find  how  greatly  these  modern 
improvements  confused  one's  recollection  of  the 

121 


The  Passing  of  San  Juan  Hill 

landscape,  and  it  was  interesting,  also,  to  find 
how  the  presence  on  the  hills  of  12,000  men  and 
the  excitement  of  the  time  magnified  distances  and 
disarranged  the  landscape. 

During  the  fight  I  walked  along  a  portion  of  the 
Santiago  road,  and  for  many  years  I  always  have 
thought  of  that  walk  as  extending  over  immense 
distances.  It  started  from  the  top  of  San  Juan 
Hill  beside  the  block-house,  where  I  had  climbed 
to  watch  our  artillery  in  action.  By  a  mistake,  the 
artillery  had  been  sent  there,  and  it  remained  ex- 
posed on  the  crest  only  about  three  minutes. 
During  that  brief  moment  the  black  powder  it 
burned  drew  upon  it  the  fire  of  every  rifle  in  the 
Spanish  line.  To  load  his  piece,  each  of  our 
men  was  forced  to  crawl  to  it  on  his  stomach, 
rise  on  one  elbow  in  order  to  shove  in  the  shell 
and  lock  the  breech,  and  then,  still  flat  on  the 
ground,  wriggle  below  the  crest.  In  the  three 
minutes  three  men  were  wounded  and  two  killed; 
and  the  guns  were  withdrawn.  I  also  withdrew. 
I  withdrew  first.  Indeed,  all  that  happened  after 
the  first  three  seconds  of  those  three  minutes  is 
hearsay,  for  I  was  in  the  Santiago  road  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill  and  retreating  briskly.  This 
road  also  was  under  a  cross-fire,  which  made 
it  stretch  in  either  direction  to  an  interminable 


122 


The  Passing  of  San  Juan  Hill 

distance.  I  remember  a  government  teamster 
driving  a  Studebaker  wagon  rilled  with  ammuni- 
tion coming  up  at  a  gallop  out  of  this  interminable 
distance  and  seeking  shelter  against  the  base  of 
the  hill.  Seated  beside  him  was  a  small  boy, 
freckled  and  sunburned,  a  stowaway  from  one  of 
the  transports.  He  was  grandly  happy  and  ex- 
cited, and  his  only  fear  was  that  he  was  not  "under 
fire."  From  our  coign  of  safety,  with  our  backs 
to  the  hill,  the  teamster  and  I  assured  him  that, 
on  that  point,  he  need  feel  no  morbid  doubt.  But 
until  a  bullet  embedded  itself  in  the  blue  board 
of  the  wagon  he  was  not  convinced.  Then  with 
his  jack-knife  he  dug  it  out  and  shouted  with 
pleasure.  "I  guess  the  folks  will  have  to  believe 
I  was  in  a  battle  now,"  he  said.  That  coign  of 
safety  ceasing  to  be  a  coign  of  safety  caused 
us  to  move  on  in  search  of  another,  and  I 
came  upon  Sergeant  Borrowe  blocking  the  road 
with  his  dynamite  gun.  He  and  his  brother 
and  three  regulars  were  busily  correcting  a 
hitch  in  its  mechanism.  An  officer  carrying  an 
order  along  the  line  halted  his  sweating  horse 
and  gazed  at  the  strange  gun  with  professional 
knowledge. 

"That  must  be  the  dynamite  gun  I  have  heard 
so  much  about,"  he  shouted.     Borrowe  saluted 

123 


The  Passing  of  San  Juan  Hill 

and   shouted   assent.     The  officer,  greatly  inter- 
ested, forgot  his  errand. 

"I'd  like  to  see  you  fire  it  once,"  he  said  eagerly. 
Borrowe,  delighted  at  the  chance  to  exhibit  his 
toy  to  a  professional  soldier,  beamed  with  equal 
eagerness. 

"In  just  a  moment,  sir,"  he  said;  "this  shell 
seems  to  have  jammed  a  bit."  The  officer,  for 
the  first  time  seeing  the  shell  stuck  in  the  breech, 
hurriedly  gathered  up  his  reins.  He  seemed  to 
be  losing  interest.  With  elaborate  carelessness  I 
began  to  edge  off  down  the  road. 

"Wait,"  Borrowe  begged;  "we'll  have  it  out  in 
a  minute." 

Suddenly  I  heard  the  officer's  voice  raised  wildly. 

"What — what,"  he  gasped,  "is  that  man  doing 
with  that  axe?" 

"He's  helping  me  to  get  out  this  shell,"  said 
Borrowe. 

"Good  God!"  said  the  officer.  Then  he  re- 
membered his  errand. 

Until  last  year,  when  I  again  met  young  Bor- 
rowe gayly  disporting  himself  at  a  lawn-tennis 
tournament  at  Mattapoisett,  I  did  not  know 
whether  his  brother's  method  of  removing  dyna- 
mite with  an  axe  had  been  entirely  successful.  He 
said  it  worked  all  right. 

124 


The  Passing  of  San  Juan  Hill 

At  the  turn  of  the  road  I  found  Colonel  Leon- 
ard Wood  and  a  group  of  Rough  Riders,  who 
were  busily  intrenching.  At  the  same  moment 
Stephen  Crane  came  up  with  "Jimmy"  Hare,  the 
man  who  has  made  the  Russian-Japanese  War 
famous.  Crane  walked  to  the  crest  and  stood 
there  as  sharply  outlined  as  a  semaphore,  observ- 
ing the  enemy's  lines,  and  instantly  bringing  upon 
himself  and  us  the  fire  of  many  Mausers.  With 
every  one  else,  Wood  was  crouched  below  the  crest 
and  shouted  to  Crane  to  lie  down.  Crane,  still 
standing,  as  though  to  get  out  of  ear-shot,  moved 
away,  and  Wood  again  ordered  him  to  lie  down. 
"You're  drawing  the  fire  on  these  men,"  Wood 
commanded.  Although  the  heat — it  was  the  ist 
of  July  in  the  tropics — was  terrific,  Crane  wore  a 
long  India  rubber  rain-coat  and  was  smoking  a 
pipe.  He  appeared  as  cool  as  though  he  were 
looking  down  from  a  box  at  a  theatre.  I  knew 
that  to  Crane,  anything  that  savored  of  a  pose 
was  hateful,  so,  as  I  did  not  want  to  see  him  killed, 
I  called,  "You're  not  impressing  any  one  by  doing 
that,  Crane."  As  I  hoped  he  would,  he  instantly 
dropped  to  his  knees.  When  he  crawled  over  to 
where  we  lay,  I  explained,  "I  knew  that  would 
fetch  you,"  and  he  grinned,  and  said,  "Oh,  was 
that  it?" 

125 


The  Passing  of  San  Juan  Hill 

A  captain  of  the  cavalry  came  up  to  Wood  and 
asked  permission  to  withdraw  his  troop  from  the 
top  of  the  hill  to  a  trench  forty  feet  below  the  one 
they  were  in.  "They  can't  possibly  live  where 
they  are  now,"  he  explained,  "and  they're  doing 
no  good  there,  for  they  can't  raise  their  heads  to 
fire.  In  that  lower  trench  they  would  be  out  of 
range  themselves  and  would  be  able  to  fire  back." 

"Yes,"  said  Wood,  "but  all  the  other  men  in 
the  first  trench  would  see  them  withdraw,  and 
the  moral  effect  would  be  bad.  They  needn't 
attempt  to  return  the  enemy's  fire,  but  they  must 
not  retreat." 

The  officer  looked  as  though  he  would  like  to 
argue.  He  was  a  West  Point  graduate  and  a 
full-fledged  captain  in  the  regular  army.  To 
him,  Wood,  in  spite  of  his  volunteer  rank  of  colonel, 
which  that  day,  owing  to  the  illness  of  General 
Young,  had  placed  him  in  command  of  a  brigade, 
was  still  a  doctor.  But  discipline  was  strong  in 
him,  and  though  he  looked  many  things,  he  rose 
from  his  knees  and  grimly  saluted.  But  at  that 
moment,  without  waiting  for  the  permission  of 
any  one,  the  men  leaped  out  of  the  trench  and  ran. 
It  looked  as  though  they  were  going  to  run  all  the 
way  to  the  sea,  and  the  sight  was  sickening.  But 
they  had  no  intention  of  running  to  the  sea.  They 

126 


The  Passing  of  San  Juan  Hill 

ran  only  to  the  trench  forty  feet  farther  down  and 
jumped  into  it,  and  instantly  turning,  began  pump- 
ing lead  at  the  enemy.  Since  five  that  morning 
Wood  had  been  running  about  on  his  feet,  his 
clothes  stuck  to  him  with  sweat  and  the  mud  and 
water  of  forded  streams,  and  as  he  rose  he  limped 
slightly.  "My,  but  I'm  tired!"  he  said,  in  a 
tone  of  the  most  acute  surprise,  and  as  though  that 
fact  was  the  only  one  that  was  weighing  on  his 
mind.  He  limped  over  to  the  trench  in  which  the 
men  were  now  busily  firing  off  their  rifles  and 
waved  a  riding-crop  he  carried  at  the  trench  they 
had  abandoned.  He  was  standing  as  Crane  had 
been  standing,  in  silhouette  against  the  sky-line. 
"Come  back,  boys,"  we  heard  him  shouting. 
"The  other  men  can't  withdraw,  and  so  you 
mustn't.  It  looks  bad.  Come  on,  get  out  of 
that!"  What  made  it  more  amusing  was  that, 
although  Wood  had,  like  every  one  else,  discarded 
his  coat  and  wore  a  strange  uniform  of  gray  shirt, 
white  riding-breeches,  and  a  cowboy  Stetson,  with 
no  insignia  of  rank,  not  even  straps  pinned  to  his 
shirt,  still  the  men  instantly  accepted  his  authority. 
They  looked  at  him  on  the  crest  of  the  hill,  waving 
his  stick  persuasively  at  the  grave-like  trench  at 
his  feet,  and  then  with  a  shout  scampered  back 
to  it. 

127 


The  Passing  of  San  Juan  Hill 

After  that,  as  I  had  a  bad  attack  of  sciatica 
and  no  place  to  sleep  and  nothing  to  eat,  I  accepted 
Crane's  offer  of  a  blanket  and  coffee  at  his  bivouac 
near  El  Poso.  On  account  of  the  sciatica  I  was 
not  able  to  walk  fast,  and,  although  for  over  a 
mile  of  the  way  the  trail  was  under  fire,  Crane  and 
Hare  each  insisted  on  giving  me  an  arm,  and  kept 
step  with  my  stumblings.  Whenever  I  protested 
and  refused  their  sacrifice  and  pointed  out  the 
risk  they  were  taking  they  smiled  as  at  the  ravings 
of  a  naughty  child,  and  when  I  lay  down  in  the  road 
and  refused  to  budge  unless  they  left  me,  Crane 
called  the  attention  of  Hare  to  the  effect  of  the 
setting  sun  behind  the  palm-trees.  To  the  reader 
all  these  little  things  that  one  remembers  seem 
very  little  indeed,  but  they  were  vivid  at  the  mo- 
ment, and  I  have  always  thought  of  them  as 
stretching  over  a  long  extent  of  time  and  terri- 
tory Before  I  revisited  San  Juan  I  would  have 
said  that  the  distance  along  the  road  from  the 
point  where  I  left  the  artillery  to  where  I  joined 
Wood  was  three-quarters  of  a  mile.  When  I 
paced  it  later  I  found  the  distance  was  about 
seventy-five  yards.  I  do  not  urge  my  stupidity 
or  my  extreme  terror  as  a  proof  that  others 
would  be  as  greatly  confused,  but,  if  only  for  the 
sake  of  the  stupid  ones,  it  seems  a  pity  that  the 

128 


Rough  Riders  in  the  trenches 


The  same  spot  as  it  appears  to-day 

The  figure  in  the  picture  is  standing  in  what  remains  of  the  trench 


The  Passing  of  San  Juan  Hill 

landmarks  of  San  Juan  should  not  be  rescued 
from  the  jungle,  and  a  few  sign-posts  placed  upon 
the  hills.  It  is  true  that  the  great  battles  of 
the  Civil  War  and  those  of  the  one  in  Man- 
churia, where  the  men  killed  and  wounded  in  a 
day  outnumber  all  those  who  fought  on  both 
sides  at  San  Juan,  make  that  battle  read  like  a 
skirmish.  But  the  Spanish  War  had  its  results. 
At  least  it  made  Cuba  into  a  republic,  and  so  en- 
riched or  burdened  us  with  colonies  that  our  re- 
public changed  into  something  like  an  empire. 
But  I  do  not  urge  that.  It  will  never  be  because 
San  Juan  changed  our  foreign  policy  that  people 
will  visit  the  spot,  and  will  send  from  it  picture 
postal  cards.  The  human  interest  alone  will  keep 
San  Juan  alive.  The  men  who  fought  there 
came  from  every  State  in  our  country  and  from 
every  class  of  our  social  life.  We  sent  there  the 
best  of  our  regular  army,  and  with  them,  cowboys, 
clerks,  bricklayers,  foot-ball  players,  three  future 
commanders  of  the  greater  army  that  followed 
that  war,  the  future  Governor  of  Cuba,  future 
commanders  of  the  Philippines,  the  commander  of 
our  forces  in  China,  a  future  President  of  the 
United  States.  And,  whether  these  men,  when 
they  returned  to  their  homes  again,  became  clerks 
and  millionaires  and  dentists,  or  rose  to  be  presi- 

129 


The  Passing  of  San  Juan  Hill 

dents  and  mounted  policemen,  they  all  remember 
very  kindly  the  days  they  lay  huddled  together  in 
the  trenches  on  that  hot  and  glaring  sky-line. 
And  there  must  be  many  more  besides  who  hold 
the  place  in  memory.  There  are  few  in  the 
United  States  so  poor  in  relatives  and  friends  who 
did  not  in  his  or  her  heart  send  a  substitute  to 
Cuba*  For  these  it  seems  as  though  San  Juan 
might  be  better  preserved,  not  as  it  is,  for  already 
its  aspect  is  too  far  changed  to  wish  for  that,  but 
as  it  was.  The  efforts  already  made  to  keep  the 
place  in  memory  and  to  honor  the  Americans 
who  died  there  are  the  public  park  which  I  have 
mentioned,  the  monument  on  San  Juan,  and  one 
other  monument  at  Guasimas  to  the  regulars  and 
Rough  Riders  who  were  killed  there.  To  these 
monuments  the  Society  of  Santiago  will  add  four 
more,  which  will  mark  the  landing  place  of  the 
army  at  Daiquairi  and  the  fights  at  Guasimas, 
El  Caney,  and  San  Juan  Hill. 

But  I  believe  even  more  than  this  might  be  done 
to  preserve  to  the  place  its  proper  values.  These 
values  are  sentimental,  historical,  and  possibly  to 
the  military  student,  educational.  If  to-day  there 
were  erected  at  Daiquairi,  Siboney,  Guasimas,  El 
Poso,  El  Caney,  and  on  and  about  San  Juan  a 
dozen  iron  or  bronze  tablets  that  would  tell  from 

130 


The  Passing  of  San  Juan  Hill 

where  certain  regiments  advanced,  what  posts  they 
held,  how  many  or  how  few  were  the  men  who 
held  those  positions,  how  near  they  were  to  the 
trenches  of  the  enemy,  and  by  whom  these  men 
were  commanded,  I  am  sure  the  place  would  re- 
construct itself  and  would  breathe  with  interest, 
not  only  for  the  returning  volunteer,  but  for  any 
casual  tourist.  As  it  is,  the  history  of  the  fight 
and  the  reputation  of  the  men  who  fought  is  now 
at  the  mercy  of  the  caretaker  of  the  park  and  the 
Cuban  "guides"  from  the  hotel.  The  care- 
taker speaks  only  Spanish,  and,  considering  the 
amount  of  misinformation  the  guides  disseminate, 
it  is  a  pity  when  they  are  talking  to  Americans, 
they  are  not  forced  to  use  the  same  language. 
When  last  I  visited  it,  Carlos  Portuondo  was  the 
official  guardian  of  San  Juan  Hill.  He  is  an  aged 
Cuban,  and  he  fought  through  the  Ten  Years' 
War,  but  during  the  last  insurrection  and  the 
Spanish-American  War  he  not  only  was  not  near 
San  Juan,  but  was  not  even  on  the  Island  of 
Cuba.  He  is  a  charming  old  person,  and  so  is 
his  aged  wife.  Their  chief  concern  in  life,  when 
I  saw  them,  was  to  sell  me  a  pair  of  breeches 
made  of  palm-fibre  which  Carlos  had  worn 
throughout  the  entire  ten  years  of  battle.  The 
vicissitudes  of  those  trousers  he  recited  to  me 

131 


The  Passing  of  San  Juan  Hill 

in  great  detail,  and  he  very  properly  regarded 
them  as  of  historic  value.  But  of  what  happened 
at  San  Juan  he  knew  nothing,  and  when  I  asked 
him  why  he  held  his  present  post  and  occupied 
the  Block-House,  he  said,  "To  keep  the  cows 
out  of  the  park."  When  I  asked  him  where  the 
Americans  had  camped,  he  pointed  carefully  from 
the  back  door  of  the  Block-House  to  the  foot 
of  his  kitchen-garden.  I  assured  him  that  under 
no  stress  of  terror  could  the  entire  American 
army  have  been  driven  into  his  back  yard,  and 
pointed  out  where  it  had  stretched  along  the 
ridge  of  hills  for  five  miles.  He  politely  but  un- 
mistakably showed  that  he  thought  I  was  a  liar. 
From  the  Venus  Hotel  there  were  two  guides,  old 
Casanova  and  Jean  Casanova,  his  languid  and 
good-natured  son,  a  youth  of  sixteen  years.  Old 
Casanova,  like  most  Cubans,  is  not  inclined  to 
give  much  credit  for  what  they  did  in  Cuba  to  the 
Americans.  After  all,  he  says,  they  came  only 
just  as  the  Cubans  themselves  were  about  to  con- 
quer the  Spaniards,  and  by  a  lucky  chance  re- 
ceived the  surrender  and  then  claimed  all  the 
credit.  As  other  Cubans  told  me,  "Had  the 
Americans  left  us  alone  a  few  weeks  longer,  we 
would  have  ended  the  war."  How  they  were  to 
have  taken  Havana,  and  sunk  Cervera's  fleet, 

132 


The  Passing  of  San  Juan  Hill 

and  why  they  were  not  among  those  present  when 
our  men  charged  San  Juan,  I  did  not  inquire. 
Old  Casanova,  again  like  other  Cubans,  ranks 
the  fighting  qualities  of  the  Spaniard  much  higher 
than  those  of  the  American.  This  is  only  human. 
It  must  be  annoying  to  a  Cuban  to  remember  that 
after  he  had  for  three  years  fought  the  Spaniard, 
the  Yankee  in  eight  weeks  received  his  surrender 
and  began  to  ship  him  home.  The  way  Casanova 
describes  the  fight  at  El  Caney  is  as  follows: 

"The  Americans  thought  they  could  capture 
El  Caney  in  one  day,  but  the  brave  General  Toral 
fought  so  good  that  it  was  six  days  before  the 
Americans  could  make  the  Spaniards  surrender." 
The  statement  is  correct  except  as  regards  the 
length  of  time  during  which  the  fight  lasted.  The 
Americans  did  make  the  mistake  of  thinking  they 
could  eat  up  El  Caney  in  an  hour  and  then  march 
through  it  to  San  Juan.  Owing  to  the  splendid 
courage  of  Toral  and  his  few  troops  our  soldiers, 
under  two  of  our  best  generals,  were  held  in  check 
from  seven  in  the  morning  until  two  in  the  after- 
noon. But  the  difference  between  seven  hours 
of  one  day  and  six  days  is  considerable.  Still,  at 
present  at  San  Juan  that  is  the  sort  of  information 
upon  which  the  patriotic  and  puzzled  American 
tourist  is  fed. 


The  Passing  of  San  Juan  Hill 

Young  Casanova,  the  only  other  authority  in 
Santiago,  is  not  so  sure  of  his  facts  as  is  his  father, 
and  is  willing  to  learn.  He  went  with  me  to  hold 
my  pony  while  I  took  the  photographs  that  ac- 
company this  article,  and  I  listened  with  great  in- 
terest to  his  accounts  of  the  battle.  Finally  he 
made  a  statement  that  was  correct.  "How  did 
you  happen  to  get  that  right  ?"  I  asked. 

"Yesterday,"  he  said,  "I  guided  Colonel  Hayes 
here,  and  while  I  guided  him  he  explained  it  to 
me.". 


114 


THE  SOUTH  AFRICAN  WAR 


WITH  BULLER'S  COLUMN 

WERE  you  the  station-master  here  before 
this  ? "  I  asked  the  man  in  the  straw  hat, 
at  Colenso.  "  I  mean  before  this  war  ? " 

"No  fear!"  snorted  the  station-master,  scorn- 
fully. "Why,  we  didn't  know  Colenso  was  on  the 
line  until  Buller  fought  a  battle  here.  That's 
how  it  is  with  all  these  way-stations  now.  Every- 
body's talking  about  them.  We  never  took  no 
notice  to  them." 

And  yet  the  arriving  stranger  might  have 
been  forgiven  his  point  of  view  and  his  start  of 
surprise  when  he  found  Chieveley  a  place  of 
only  a  half  dozen  corrugated  zinc  huts,  and  Co- 
lenso a  scattered  gathering  of  a  dozen  shattered 
houses  of  battered  brick. 

Chieveley  seemed  so  insignificant  in  contrast 
with  its  fame  to  those  who  had  followed  the 
war  on  maps  and  in  the  newspapers,  that  one 
was  not  sure  he  was  on  the  right  road  until  he 
saw  from  the  car-window  the  armored  train  still 
lying  on  the  embankment,  the  graves  beside  it, 
and  the  donga  into  which  Winston  Churchill 
pulled  and  carried  the  wounded. 


With  Buller's  Column 

And  as  the  train  bumped  and  halted  before 
the  blue  and  white  enamel  sign  that  marks  Co- 
lenso  station,  the  places  which  have  made  that 
spot  familiar  and  momentous  fell  into  line  like 
the  buoys  which  mark  the  entrance  to  a  harbor. 

We  knew  that  the  high  bare  ridge  to  the  right 
must  be  Fort  Wylie,  that  the  plain  on  the  left 
was  where  Colonel  Long  had  lost  his  artillery,  and 
three  officers  gained  the  Victoria  Cross,  and  that 
the  swift,  muddy  stream,  in  which  the  iron  rail- 
road bridge  lay  humped  and  sprawling,  was  the 
Tugela  River. 

Six  hours  before,  at  Frere  Station,  the  station- 
master  had  awakened  us  to  say  that  Ladysmith 
would  be  relieved  at  any  moment.  This  had 
but  just  come  over  the  wire.  It  was  "official." 
Indeed,  he  added,  with  local  pride,  that  the  vil- 
lage band  was  still  awake  and  in  readiness  to 
celebrate  the  imminent  event.  He  found,  I  fear, 
an  unsympathetic  audience.  The  train  was  car- 
rying philanthropic  gentlemen  in  charge  of  stores 
«f  champagne  and  marmalade  for  the  besieged 
city.  They  did  not  want  it  to  be  relieved  until 
they  were  there  to  substitute  pate  de  foie  gras  for 
horseflesh.  And  there  were  officers,  too,  who 
wanted  a  "look  in,"  and  who  had  been  kept 
waiting  at  Cape  Town  for  commissions,  glad- 

138 


With  Buller's  Column 

dening  the  guests  of  the  Mount  Nelson  Hotel  the 
while  with  their  new  khaki  and  gaiters,  and  there 
were  Tommies  who  wanted  "Relief  of  Ladysmith" 
on  the  claps  of  their  medals,  as  they  had  seen 
"Relief  of  Lucknow"  on  the  medals  of  the  Chel- 
sea pensioners.  And  there  was  a  correspondent 
who  had  journeyed  15,000  miles  to  see  Lady- 
smith  relieved,  and  who  was  apparently  going 
to  miss  that  sight,  after  five  weeks  of  travel,  by 
a  margin  of  five  hours. 

We  all  growled  "That's  good,"  as  we  had 
done  for  the  last  two  weeks  every  time  we  had 
heard  it  was  relieved,  but  our  tone  was  not  en- 
thusiastic. And  when  the  captain  of  the  Natal 
Carbineers  said,  "I  am  afraid  the  good  news  is 
too  premature,"  we  all  said,  hopefully,  we  were 
afraid  it  was. 

We  had  seen  nothing  yet  that  was  like  real 
war.  That  night  at  Pietermaritzburg  the  offi- 
cers at  the  hotel  were  in  mess-jackets,  the  offi- 
cers' wives  in  dinner-gowns.  It  was  like  Shep- 
heard's  Hotel,  at  the  top  of  the  season.  But 
only  six  hours  after  that  dinner,  as  we  looked 
out  of  the  car-windows,  we  saw  galloping  across 
the  high  grass,  like  men  who  had  lost  their  way, 
and  silhouetted  black  against  the  red  sunrise, 
countless  horsemen  scouting  ahead  of  our  train, 


With  Buller's  Column 

and  guarding  it  against  the  fate  of  the  armored 
one  lying  wrecked  at  Chieveley.  The  darkness 
was  still  heavy  on  the  land  and  the  only  lights 
were  the  red  eyes  of  the  armored  train  creep- 
ing in  advance  of  ours,  and  the  red  sun,  which 
showed  our  silent  escort  appearing  suddenly 
against  the  sky-line  on  a  ridge,  or  galloping 
toward  us  through  the  dew  to  order  us,  with  a 
wave  of  the  hand,  to  greater  speed.  One  hour 
after  sunrise  the  train  drew  up  at  Colenso,  and 
from  only  a  mile  away  we  heard  the  heavy  thud 
of  the  naval  guns,  the  hammering  of  the  Boer 
"pom-poms/*  and  the  Maxims  and  Colt  auto- 
matics spanking  the  air.  We  smiled  at  each 
other  guiltily.  We  were  on  time.  It  was  most 
evident  that  Ladysmith  had  not  been  relieved. 

This  was  the  twelfth  day  of  a  battle  that  Bul- 
ler's column  was  waging  against  the  Boers  and 
their  mountain  ranges,  or  "disarranges,"  as 
some  one  described  them,  without  having  gained 
more  than  three  miles  of  hostile  territory.  He 
had  tried  to  force  his  way  through  them  six 
times,  and  had  been  repulsed  six  times.  And 
now  he  was  to  try  it  again. 

No  map,  nor  photograph,  nor  written  de- 
scription can  give  an  idea  of  the  country  which 
lay  between  Buller  and  his  goal.  It  was  an 

140 


With  Buller's  Column 

eruption  of  high  hills,  linked  together  at  every 
point  without  order  or  sequence.  In  most  coun- 
tries mountains  and  hills  follow  some  natural 
law.  The  Cordilleras  can  be  traced  from  the 
Amazon  River  to  Guatemala  City;  they  make 
the  water-shed  of  two  continents;  the  Great 
Divide  forms  the  backbone  of  the  States,  but  these 
Natal  hills  have  no  lineal  descent.  They  are 
illegitimate  children  of  no  line,  abandoned  broad- 
cast over  the  country,  with  no  family  likeness  and 
no  home.  They  stand  alone,  or  shoulder  to 
shoulder,  or  at  right  angles,  or  at  a  tangent,  or 
join  hands  across  a  valley.  They  never  appear 
the  same;  some  run  to  a  sharp  point,  some  stretch 
out,  forming  a  table-land,  others  are  gigantic  ant- 
hills, others  perfect  and  accurately  modelled  ram- 
parts. In  a  ride  of  half  a  mile,  every  hill  com- 
pletely loses  its  original  aspect  and  character. 

They  hide  each  other,  or  disguise  each  other. 
Each  can  be  enfiladed  by  the  other,  and  not  one 
gives  up  the  secret  of  its  strategic  value  until  its 
crest  has  been  carried  by  the  bayonet.  To  add 
to  this  confusion,  the  river  Tugela  has  selected  the 
hills  around  Ladysmith  as  occupying  the  country 
through  which  it  will  endeavor  to  throw  off  its 
pursuers.  It  darts  through  them  as  though  striv- 
ing to  escape,  it  doubles  on  its  tracks,  it  sinks  out 

141 


With  Buller's  Column 

of  sight  between  them,  and  in  the  open  plain 
rises  to  the  dignity  of  water-falls.  It  runs  uphill, 
and  remains  motionless  on  an  incline,  and  on  the 
level  ground  twists  and  turns  so  frequently  that 
when  one  says  he  has  crossed  the  Tugela,  he 
means  he  has  crossed  it  once  at  a  drift,  once  at 
the  wrecked  railroad  bridge,  and  once  over  a 
pontoon.  And  then  he  is  not  sure  that  he  is  not 
still  on  the  same  side  from  which  he  started. 

Some  of  these  hills  are  green,  but  the  greater 
part  are  a  yellow  or  dark  red,  against  which 
at  two  hundred  yards  a  man  in  khaki  is  indis- 
tinguishable from  the  rocks  around  him.  In- 
deed, the  khaki  is  the  English  soldier's  sole 
protection.  It  saves  him  in  spite  of  himself,  for 
he  apparently  cannot  learn  to  advance  under 
cover,  and  a  sky-line  is  the  one  place  where  he 
selects  to  stand  erect  and  stretch  his  weary  limbs. 
I  have  come  to  within  a  hundred  yards  of  a  hill 
before  I  saw  that  scattered  among  its  red  and 
yellow  bowlders  was  the  better  part  of  a  regiment 
as  closely  packed  together  as  the  crowd  on  the 
bleaching  boards  at  a  base-ball  match. 

Into  this  maze  and  confusion  of  nature's 
fortifications  Buller's  column  has  been  twist- 
ing and  turning,  marching  and  countermarch- 
ing, capturing  one  position  after  another,  to  find 

142 


With  Buller's  Column 

it  was  enfiladed  from  many  hills,  and  abandon- 
ing it,  only  to  retake  it  a  week  later.  The  greater 
part  of  the  column  has  abandoned  its  tents  and 
is  bivouacking  in  the  open.  It  is  a  wonderful 
and  impressive  sight.  At  the  first  view,  an  army 
in  being,  when  it  is  spread  out  as  it  is  in  the  Tu- 
gela  basin  back  of  the  hills,  seems  a  hopelessly  and 
irrevocably  entangled  mob. 

An  army  in  the  field  is  not  regiments  of  armed 
men,  marching  with  a  gun  on  shoulder,  or  crouch- 
ing behind  trenches.  That  is  the  least,  even  if  it 
seems  the  most,  important  part  of  it.  Before  one 
reaches  the  firing-line  he  must  pass  villages  of 
men,  camps  of  men,  bivouacs  of  men,  who  are 
feeding,  mending,  repairing,  and  Burying  the 
men  at  the  "front."  It  is  these  latter  that  make 
the  mob  of  gypsies,  which  is  apparently  without 
head  or  order  or  organization.  They  stretched 
across  the  great  basin  of  the  Tugela,  like  the 
children  of  Israel,  their  camp-fires  rising  to  the 
sky  at  night  like  the  reflection  of  great  search- 
lights; by  day  they  swarmed  across  the  plain, 
like  hundreds  of  moving  circus-vans  in  every 
direction,  with  as  little  obvious  intention  as  herds 
of  buffalo.  But  each  had  his  appointed  work, 
and  each  was  utterly  indifferent  to  the  battle 
going  forward  a  mile  away.  Hundreds  of  teams, 


With  Buller's  Column 

of  sixteen  oxen  each,  crawled  like  great  black 
water-snakes  across  the  drifts,  the  Kaffir  driv- 
ers, naked  and  black,  lashing  them  with  whips 
as  long  as  lariats,  shrieking,  beseeching,  and 
howling,  and  falling  upon  the  oxen's  horns  to 
drag  them  into  place. 

Mules  from  Spain  and  Texas,  loaded  with 
ammunition,  kicked  and  plunged,  more  oxen 
drew  more  soberly  the  great  naval  guns,  which 
lurched  as  though  in  a  heavy  sea,  throwing  the 
blue-jackets  who  hung  upon  the  drag-ropes  from 
one  high  side  of  the  trail  to  the  other.  Across 
the  plain,  and  making  toward  the  trail,  wagons 
loaded  with  fodder,  with  rations,  with  camp 
equipment,  with  tents  and  cooking-stoves,  crowded 
each  other  as  closely  as  cable-cars  on  Broadway. 
Scattered  among  them  were  fixed  lines  of  tethered 
horses,  rows  of  dog-tents,  camps  of  Kaffirs,  hos- 
pital stations  with  the  Red  Cross  waving  from 
the  nearest  and  highest  tree.  Dripping  water- 
carts  with  as  many  spigots  as  the  regiment  had 
companies,  howitzer  guns  guided  by  as  many 
ropes  as  a  May-pole,  crowded  past  these  to  the 
trail,  or  gave  way  to  the  ambulances  filled  with 
men  half  dressed  and  bound  in  the  zinc-blue 
bandages  that  made  the  color  detestable  for- 
ever after.  Troops  of  the  irregular  horse  gallop 

144 


With  Buller's  Column 

through  this  multitude,  with  a  jangling  of  spurs 
and  sling-belts;  and  Tommies,  in  close  order, 
fight  their  way  among  the  oxen,  or  help  pull  them 
to  one  side  as  the  stretchers  pass,  each  with  its 
burden,  each  with  its  blue  bandage  stained  a 
dark  brownish  crimson.  It  is  only  when  the 
figure  on  the  stretcher  lies  under  a  blanket  that 
the  tumult  and  push  and  sweltering  mass  comes 
to  a  quick  pause,  while  the  dead  man's  com- 
rade stands  at  attention,  and  the  officer  raises 
his  fingers  to  his  helmet.  Then  the  mass  surges 
on  again,  with  cracking  of  whips  and  shouts  and 
imprecations,  while  the  yellow  dust  rises  in  thick 
clouds  and  buries  the  picture  in  a  glaring  fog. 
This  moving,  struggling  mass,  that  fights  for 
the  right  of  way  along  the  road,  is  within  easy 
distance  of  the  shells.  Those  from  their  own 
guns  pass  over  them  with  a  shrill  crescendo,  those 
from  the  enemy  burst  among  them  at  rare  inter- 
vals, or  sink  impotently  in  the  soft  soil.  And  a 
dozen  Tommies  rush  to  dig  them  out  as  keep- 
sakes. Up  at  the  front,  brown  and  yellow  regi- 
ments are  lying  crouched  behind  brown  and 
yellow  rocks  and  stones.  As  far  as  you  can  see, 
the  hills  are  sown  with  them.  With  a  glass  you 
can  distinguish  them  against  the  sky-line  of  every 
hill,  for  over  three  miles  away.  Sometimes  the 

145 


With  Buller's  Column 

men  rise  and  fire,  and  there  is  a  feverish  flutter 
of  musketry;  sometimes  they  lie  motionless  for 
hours  while  the  guns  make  the  ways  straight. 

Any  one  who  has  seen  Epsom  Downs  on  a 
Derby  day,  with  its  thousands  of  vans  and  tents 
and  lines  of  horses  and  moving  mobs,  can  form 
some  idea  of  what  it  is  like.  But  while  at  the 
Derby  all  is  interest  and  excitement,  and  every 
one  is  pushing  and  struggling,  and  the  air  pal- 
pitates with  the  intoxication  of  a  great  event, 
the  winning  of  a  horse-race — here,  where  men 
are  killed  every  hour  and  no  one  of  them  knows 
when  his  turn  may  come,  the  fact  that  most 
impresses  you  is  their  indifference  to  it  all.  What 
strikes  you  most  is  the  bored  air  of  the  Tommies, 
the  undivided  interest  of  the  engineers  in  the  con- 
struction of  a  pontoon  bridge,  the  solicitude  of  the 
medical  staff  over  the  long  lines  of  wounded,  the 
rage  of  the  naked  Kaffirs  at  their  lumbering 
steers;  the  fact  that  every  one  is  intent  on  some- 
thing— anything — but  the  battle. 

They  are  wearied  with  battles.  The  Tommies 
stretch  themselves  in  the  sun  to  dry  the  wet  khaki 
in  which  they  have  lain  out  in  the  cold  night  for 
weeks,  and  yawn  at  battles.  Or,  if  you  climb  to 
the  hill  where  the  officers  are  seated,  you  will  find 
men  steeped  even  deeper  in  boredom.  They  are 

146 


With  Buller's  Column 

burned  a  dark  red;  their  brown  mustaches  look 
white  by  contrast;  theirs  are  the  same  faces  you 
have  met  with  in  Piccadilly,  which  you  see  across 
the  tables  of  the  Savoy  restaurant,  which  gaze  de- 
pressedly  from  the  windows  of  White's  and  the 
Bachelors'  Club.  If  they  were  bored  then,  they 
are  unbearably  bored  now.  Below  them  the 
men  of  their  regiment  lie  crouched  amid  the 
bowlders,  hardly  distinguishable  from  the  brown 
and  yellow  rock.  They  are  sleeping,  or  dozing, 
or  yawning.  A  shell  passes  over  them  like  the 
shaking  of  many  telegraph  wires,  and  neither 
officer  nor  Tommy  raises  his  head  to  watch  it 
strike.  They  are  tired  in  body  and  in  mind, 
with  cramped  limbs  and  aching  eyes.  They 
have  had  twelve  nights  and  twelve  days  of  bat- 
tle, and  it  has  lost  its  power  to  amuse. 

When  the  sergeants  call  the  companies  together, 
they  are  eager  enough.  Anything  is  better  than 
lying  still  looking  up  at  the  sunny,  inscrutable 
hills,  or  down  into  the  plain  crawling  with  black 
oxen. 

Among  the  group  of  staff  officers  some  one  has 
lost  a  cigar-holder.  It  has  slipped  from  be- 
tween his  fingers,  and,  with  the  vindictiveness 
of  inanimate  things,  has  slid  and  jumped  under 
a  pile  of  rocks.  The  interest  of  all  around  is 


With  Buller's  Column 

instantly  centred  on  the  lost  cigar-holder.  The 
Tommies  begin  to  roll  the  rocks  away,  endanger- 
ing the  limbs  of  the  men  below  them,  and  half 
the  kopje  is  obliterated.  They  are  as  keen  as 
terriers  after  a  rat.  The  officers  sit  above  and 
give  advice  and  disagree  as  to  where  that  cigar- 
holder  hid  itself.  Over  their  heads,  not  twenty 
feet  above,  the  shells  chase  each  other  fiercely. 
But  the  officers  have  become  accustomed  to 
shells;  a  search  for  a  lost  cigar-holder,  which 
is  going  on  under  their  very  eyes,  is  of  greater  in- 
terest. And  when  at  last  a  Tommy  pounces  upon 
it  with  a  laugh  of  triumph,  the  officers  look  their 
disappointment,  and,  with  a  sigh  of.  resignation, 
pick  up  their  field-glasses. 

It  is  all  a  question  of  familiarity.  On  Broad- 
way, if  a  building  is  going  up  where  there  is  a 
chance  of  a  loose  brick  falling  on  some  one's 
head,  the  contractor  puts  up  red  signs  marked 
"Danger!"  and  you  dodge  over  to  the  other 
side.  But  if  you  had  been  in  battle  for  twelve 
days,  as  have  the  soldiers  of  Buller's  column, 
passing  shells  would  interest  you  no  more  than 
do  passing  cable-cars.  After  twelve  days  you 
would  forget  that  shells  are  dangerous  even  as 
you  forget  when  crossing  Broadway  that  cable- 
cars  can  kill  and  mangle. 

148 


With  Buller's  Column 

Up  on  the  highest  hill,  seated  among  the 
highest  rocks,  are  General  Buller  and  his  staff. 
The  hill  is  all  of  rocks,  sharp,  brown  rocks, 
as  clearly  cut  as  foundation-stones.  They  are 
thrown  about  at  irregubr  angles,  and  are  shaded 
only  by  stiff  bayonet-like  cacti.  Above  is  a  blue 
glaring  sky,  into  which  the  top  of  the  kopje  seems 
to  reach,  and  to  draw  and  concentrate  upon  itself 
all  of  the  sun's  heat.  This  little  jagged  point  of 
blistering  rocks  holds  the  forces  that  press  the 
button  which  sets  the  struggling  mass  below,  and 
the  thousands  of  men  upon  the  surrounding  hills, 
in  motion.  It  is  the  conning  tower  of  the  relief 
column,  only,  unlike  a  conning  tower,  it  offers  no 
protection,  no  seclusion,  no  peace.  To-day,  com- 
manding generals,  under  the  new  conditions 
which  this  war  has  developed,  do  not  charge  up 
hills  waving  flashing  swords.  They  sit  on  rocks, 
and  wink  out  their  orders  by  a  flashing  hand-mir- 
ror. The  swords  have  been  left  at  the  base,  or 
coated  deep  with  mud,  so  that  they  shall  not 
flash,  and  with  this  column  every  one,  under  the 
rank  of  general,  carries  a  rifle  on  purpose  to 
disguise  the  fact  that  he  is  entitled  to  carry  a 
sword.  The  kopje  is  the  central  station  of  the 
system.  From  its  uncomfortable  eminence  the 
commanding  general  watches  the  developments 

149 


With  Buller's  Column 

of  his  attack,  and  directs  it  by  heliograph  and 
ragged  bits  of  bunting.  A  sweating,  dirty  Tom- 
my turns  his  back  on  a  hill  a  mile  away  and 
slaps  the  air  with  his  signal  flag;  another  Tom- 
my, with  the  front  visor  of  his  helmet  cocked 
over  the  back  of  his  neck,  watches  an  answer- 
ing bit  of  bunting  through  a  glass.  The  bit  of 
bunting,  a  mile  away,  flashes  impatiently,  once 
to  the  right  and  once  to  the  left,  and  the  Tommy 
with  the  glass  says,  "They  understand,  sir," 
and  the  other  Tommy,  who  has  not  as  yet  cast 
even  an  interested  glance  at  the  regiment  he  has 
ordered  into  action,  folds  his  flag  and  curls  up 
against  a  hot  rock  and  instantly  sleeps. 

Stuck  on  the  crest,  twenty  feet  from  where 
General  Buller  is  seated,  are  two  iron  rods,  like 
those  in  the  putting-green  of  a  golf  course.  They 
mark  the  line  of  direction  which  a  shell  must 
take,  in  order  to  seek  out  the  enemy.  Back  of 
the  kopje,  where  they  cannot  see  the  enemy, 
where  they  cannot  even  see  the  hill  upon  which 
he  is  intrenched,  are  the  howitzers.  Their  duty 
is  to  aim  at  the  iron  rods,  and  vary  their  aim  to 
either  side  of  them  as  they  are  directed  to  do  by 
an  officer  on  the  crest.  Their  shells  pass  a  few 
yards  over  the  heads  of  the  staff,  but  the  staff 
has  confidence.  Those  three  yards  are  as  safe  a 

150 


With  Duller' s  Column 

margin  as  a  hundred.  Their  confidence  is  that 
of  the  lady  in  spangles  at  a  music-hall,  who  per- 
mits her  husband  in  buckskin  to  shoot  apples 
from  the  top  of  her  head.  From  the  other  direc- 
tion come  the  shells  of  the  Boers,  seeking  out  the 
hidden  howitzers.  They  pass  somewhat  higher, 
crashing  into  the  base  of  the  kopje,  sometimes 
killing,  sometimes  digging  their  own  ignominious 
graves.  The  staff  regard  them  with  the  same  in- 
difference. One  of  them  tears  the  overcoat  upon 
which  Colonel  Stuart-Wortley  is  seated,  another 
destroys  his  diary.  His  men,  lying  at  his  feet 
among  the  red  rocks,  observe  this  with  wide 
eyes.  But  he  does  not  shift  his  position.  His 
answer  is,  that  his  men  cannot  shift  theirs. 

On  Friday,  February  23d,  the  Inniskillings, 
Dublins,  and  Connaughts  were  sent  out  to  take 
a  trench,  half-way  up  Railway  Hill.  The  at- 
tack was  one  of  those  frontal  attacks,  which  in 
this  war,  against  the  new  weapons,  have  added 
so  much  to  the  lists  of  killed  and  wounded  and 
to  the  prestige  of  the  men,  while  it  has,  in  an 
inverse  ratio,  hurt  the  prestige  of  the  men  by 
whom  the  attack  was  ordered.  The  result  of 
this  attack  was  peculiarly  disastrous.  It  was 
made  at  night,  and  as  soon  as  it  developed,  the 
Boers  retreated  to  the  trenches  on  the  crest  of  the 


With  Buller's  Column 

hill,  and  threw  men  around  the  sides  to  bring 
a  cross-fire  to  bear  on  the  Englishmen.  In  the 
morning  the  Inniskillings  found  they  had  lost 
four  hundred  men,  and  ten  out  of  their  fifteen 
officers.  The  other  regiments  lost  as  heavily. 
The  following  Tuesday,  which  was  the  anni- 
versary of  Majuba  Hill,  three  brigades,  instead 
of  a  regiment,  were  told  off  to  take  this  same  Rail- 
way Hill,  or  Pieter's,  as  it  was  later  called,  on  the 
flank,  and  with  it  to  capture  two  others.  On  the 
same  day,  nineteen  years  before,  the  English  had 
lost  Majuba  Hill,  and  their  hope  was  to  take  these 
three  from  the  Boers  for  the  one  they  had  lost, 
and  open  the  way  to  Bulwana  Mountain,  which 
was  the  last  bar  that  held  them  back  from  Lady- 
smith. 

The  first  two  of  the  three  hills  they  wanted 
were  shoulder  to  shoulder,  the  third  was  sepa- 
rated from  them  by  a  deep  ravine.  This  last 
was  the  highest,  and  in  order  that  the  attack 
should  be  successful,  it  was  necessary  to  seize 
it  first.  The  hills  stretched  for  three  miles; 
they  were  about  one  thousand  two  hundred 
yards  high. 

For  three  hours  a  single  line  of  men  slipped 
and  stumbled  forward  along  the  muddy  bank 
of  the  river,  and  for  three  hours  the  artillery 


With  Buller's  Column 

crashed,  spluttered,  and  stabbed  at  the  three 
hills  above  them,  scattering  the  rocks  and  burst- 
ing over  and  behind  the  Boer  trenches  on  the 
crest. 

As  is  their  custom,  the  Boers  remained  in- 
visible and  made  no  reply.  And  though  we 
knew  they  were  there,  it  seemed  inconceivable 
that  anything  human  could  live  under  such  a 
bombardment  of  shot,  bullets,  and  shrapnel. 
A  hundred  yards  distant,  on  our  right,  the  navy 
guns  were  firing  lyddite  that  burst  with  a  thick 
yellow  smoke;  on  the  other  side  Colt  automat- 
ics were  put-put-put-ing  a  stream  of  bullets; 
the  field-guns  and  the  howitzers  were  playing 
from  a  hill  half  a  mile  behind  us,  and  scattered 
among  the  rocks  about  us,  and  for  two  miles  on 
either  hand,  the  infantry  in  reserve  were  firing 
off  ammunition  at  any  part  of  the  three  hills 
they  happened  to  dislike! 

The  roar  of  the  navy's  Four-Point-Sevens, 
their  crash,  their  rush  as  they  passed,  the  shrill 
whine  of  the  shrapnel,  the  barking  of  the  howit- 
zers, and  the  mechanical,  regular  rattle  of  the 
quick-firing  Maxims,  which  sounded  like  the 
clicking  of  many  mowing-machines  on  a  hot 
summer's  day,  tore  the  air  with  such  hideous 
noises  that  one's  skull  ached  from  the  concus- 


With  Buller's  Column 

sion,  and  one  could  only  be  heard  by  shouting. 
But  more  impressive  by  far  than  this  hot  chorus 
of  mighty  thunder  and  petty  hammering,  was 
the  roar  of  the  wind  which  was  driven  down 
into  the  valley  beneath,  and  which  swept  up 
again  in  enormous  waves  of  sound.  It  roared 
like  a  wild  hurricane  at  sea.  The  illusion  was 
so  complete,  that  you  expected,  by  looking  down, 
to  see  the  Tugela  lashing  at  her  banks,  tossing 
the  spray  hundreds  of  feet  in  air,  and  battling 
with  her  sides  of  rock.  It  was  like  the  roar  of 
Niagara  in  a  gale,  and  yet  when  you  did  look  below, 
not  a  leaf  was  stirring,  and  the  Tugela  was  slip- 
ping forward,  flat  and  sluggish,  and  in  peace. 

The  long  procession  of  yellow  figures  was 
still  advancing  along  the  bottom  of  the  valley, 
toward  the  right,  when  on  the  crest  of  the  farther- 
most hill  fourteen  of  them  appeared  suddenly, 
and  ran  forward  and  sprang  into  the  trenches. 

Perched  against  the  blue  sky  on  the  highest 
and  most  distant  of  the  three  hills,  they  looked 
terribly  lonely  and  insufficient,  and  they  ran 
about,  this  way  and  that,  as  though  they  were 
very  much  surprised  to  find  themselves  where 
they  were.  Then  they  settled  down  into  the 
Boer  trench,  from  our  side  of  it,  and  began 
firing,  their  officer,  as  his  habit  is,  standing  up 


With  Buller's  Column 

behind  them.  The  hill  they  had  taken  had 
evidently  been  abandoned  to  them  by  the  ene- 
my, and  the  fourteen  men  in  khaki  had  taken  it 
by  "default."  But  they  disappeared  so  suddenly 
into  the  trench,  that  we  knew  they  were  not  en- 
joying their  new  position  in  peace,  and  every  one 
looked  below  them,  to  see  the  arriving  reinforce- 
ments. They  came  at  last,  to  the  number  of  ten, 
and  scampered  about  just  as  the  others  had  done, 
looking  for  cover.  It  seemed  as  if  we  could  almost 
hear  the  singing  of  the  bullet  when  one  of  them 
dodged,  and  it  was  with  a  distinct  sense  of  re- 
lief, and  of  freedom  from  further  responsibil- 
ity, that  we  saw  the  ten  disappear  also,  and  be- 
come part  of  the  yellow  stones  about  them. 
Then  a  very  wonderful  movement  began  to 
agitate  the  men  upon  the  two  remaining  hills 
They  began  to  creep  up  them  as  you  have  seen 
seaweed  rise  with  the  tide  and  envelop  a  rock. 
They  moved  in  regiments,  but  each  man  was  as 
distinct  as  is  a  letter  of  the  alphabet  in  each 
word  on  this  page,  black  with  letters.  We  be- 
gan to  follow  the  fortunes  of  individual  letters. 
It  was  a  most  selfish  and  cowardly  occupation, 
for  you  knew  you  were  in  no  greater  danger  than 
you  would  be  in  looking  through  the  glasses  of  a 
mutoscope.  The  battle  unrolled  before  you  like 


With  Buller's  Column 

a  panorama.  The  guns  on  our  side  of  the  valley 
had  ceased,  the  hurricane  in  the  depths  below 
had  instantly  spent  itself,  and  the  birds  and  in- 
sects had  again  begun  to  fill  our  hill  with  drowsy 
twitter  and  song.  But  on  the  other,  half  the 
men  were  wrapping  the  base  of  the  hill  in  khaki, 
which  rose  higher  and  higher,  growing  looser 
and  less  tightly  wrapt  as  it  spun  upward.  Half- 
way to  the  crest  there  was  a  broad  open  space 
of  green  grass,  and  above  that  a  yellow  bank  of 
earth,  which  supported  the  track  of  the  railroad. 
This  green  space  spurted  with  tiny  geysers  of 
yellow  dust.  Where  the  bullets  came  from  or 
who  sent  them  we  could  not  see.  But  the  loose 
ends  of  the  bandage  of  khaki  were  stretching 
across  this  green  space  and  the  yellow  spurts  of 
dust  rose  all  around  them.  The  men  crossed 
this  fire  zone  warily,  looking  to  one  side  or  the 
other,  as  the  bullets  struck  the  earth  heavily,  like 
drops  of  rain  before  a  shower. 

The  men  had  their  heads  and  shoulders  bent 
as  though  they  thought  a  roof  was  about  to 
fall  on  them;  some  ran  from  rock  to  rock,  seek- 
ing cover  properly;  others  scampered  toward  the 
safe  vantage-ground  behind  the  railroad  embank- 
ment; others  advanced  leisurely,  like  men  play- 
ing golf.  The  silence,  after  the  hurricane  of 

156 

I 


With  Buller's  Column 

sounds,  was  painful;  we  could  not  hear  even  the 
Boer  rifles.  The  men  moved  like  figures  in  a 
dream,  without  firing  a  shot.  They  seemed  each 
to  be  acting  on  his  own  account,  without  unison 
or  organization.  As  I  have  said,  you  ceased  con- 
sidering the  scattered  whole,  and  became  intent 
on  the  adventures  of  individuals.  These  fell  so 
suddenly,  that  you  waited  with  great  anxiety  to 
learn  whether  they  had  dropped  to  dodge  a 
bullet  or  whether  one  had  found  them.  The 
men  came  at  last  from  every  side,  and  from  out 
of  every  ridge  and  dried-up  waterway.  Open 
spaces  which  had  been  green  a  moment  before 
were  suddenly  dyed  yellow  with  them.  Where 
a  company  had  been  clinging  to  the  railroad  em- 
bankment, there  stood  one  regiment  holding  it, 
and  another  sweeping  over  it.  Heights  that  had 
seemed  the  goal,  became  the  resting-place  of  the 
stretcher-bearers,  until  at  last  no  part  of  the  hill 
remained  unpopulated,  save  a  high  bulging  ram- 
part of  unprotected  and  open  ground.  And  then, 
suddenly,  coming  from  the  earth  itself,  appar- 
ently, one  man  ran  across  this  open  space  and 
leaped  on  top  of  the  trench  which  crowned  the 
hill.  He  was  fully  fifteen  yards  in  advance  of  all 
the  rest,  entirely  unsupported,  and  alone.  And 
he  had  evidently  planned  it  so,  for  he  took  off  his 


With  Buller's  Column 

helmet  and  waved  it,  and  stuck  it  on  his  rifle 
and  waved  it  again,  and  then  suddenly  clapped 
it  on  his  head  and  threw  his  gun  to  his  shoul- 
der. He  stood  so,  pointing  down  into  the  trench, 
and  it  seemed  as  though  we  could  hear  him  calling 
upon  the  Boers  behind  it  to  surrender. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  last  of  the  three  hills 
was  mounted  by  the  West  Yorks,  who  were  mis- 
taken by  their  own  artillery  for  Boers,  and  fired 
upon  both  by  the  Boers  and  by  their  own  shrapnel 
and  lyddite.  Four  men  were  wounded,  and,  to 
save  themselves,  a  line  of  them  stood  up  at  full 
length  on  the  trench  and  cheered  and  waved  at  the 
artillery  until  it  had  ceased  to  play  upon  them. 
The  Boers  continued  to  fire  upon  them  with 
rifles  for  over  two  hours.  But  it  was  only  a 
demonstration  to  cover  the  retreat  of  the  greater 
number,  and  at  daybreak  the  hills  were  in  com- 
plete and  peaceful  possession  of  the  English. 
These  hills  were  a  part  of  the  same  Railway  Hill 
which  four  nights  before  the  Inniskillings  and 
a  composite  regiment  had  attempted  to  take 
by  a  frontal  attack,  with  the  loss  of  six  hundred 
men,  among  whom  were  three  colonels.  By 
this  flank  attack,  and  by  using  nine  regiments 
instead  of  one,  the  same  hills  and  two  others  were 
taken  with  two  hundred  casualties.  The  fact 

158 


With  Buller's  Column 

that  this  battle,  which  was  called  the  Battle  of 
Pieter's  Hill,  and  the  surrender  of  General  Cronje 
and  his  forces  to  Lord  Roberts,  both  took  place 
on  the  anniversary  of  the  battle  of  Majuba  Hill, 
made  the  whole  of  Buller's  column  feel  that  the 
ill  memory  of  that  disaster  had  been  effaced. 


159 


II 

THE  RELIEF  OF  LADYSMITH 

\  FTER  the  defeat  of  the  Boers  at  the  battle 
XA.  of  Pieter's  Hill  there  were  two  things  left 
for  them  to  do.  They  could  fall  back  across  a 
great  plain  which  stretched  from  Pieter's  Hill 
to  Bulwana  Mountain,  and  there  make  their  last 
stand  against  Buller  and  the  Ladysmith  relief  col- 
umn, or  they  could  abandon  the  siege  of  Lady- 
smith  and  slip  away  after  having  held  Buller  at 
bay  for  three  months. 

Bulwana  Mountain  is  shaped  like  a  brick 
and  blocks  the  valley  in  which  Ladysmith  lies. 
The  railroad  track  slips  around  one  end  of  the 
brick,  and  the  Dundee  trail  around  the  other. 
It  was  on  this  mountain  that  the  Boers  had  placed 
their  famous  gun,  Long  Tom,  with  which  they 
began  the  bombardment  of  Ladysmith,  and  with 
which  up  to  the  day  before  Ladysmith  was  re- 
lieved they  had  thrown  three  thousand  shells 
into  that  miserable  town. 

If  the  Boers  on  retreating  from  Pieter's  Hill 
had  fortified  this  mountain  with  the  purpose  of 
holding  off  Buller  for  a  still  longer  time,  they 

160 


The  Relief  of  Ladysmith 

would  have  been  under  a  fire  from  General 
White's  artillery  in  the  town  behind  them  and 
from  Buller's  naval  guns  in  front.  Their  position 
would  not  have  been  unlike  that  of  Humpty 
Dumpty  on  the  wall,  so  they  wisely  adopted  the 
only  alternative  and  slipped  away.  This  was  on 
Tuesday  night,  while  the  British  were  hurrying 
up  artillery  to  hold  the  hills  they  had  taken  that 
afternoon. 

By  ten  o'clock  the  following  morning  from 
the  top  of  Pieter's  Hill  you  could  still  see  the 
Boers  moving  off  along  the  Dundee  road.  It 
was  an  easy  matter  to  follow  them,  for  the  dust 
hung  above  the  trail  in  a  yellow  cloud,  like  mist 
over  a  swamp.  There  were  two  opinions  as  to 
whether  they  were  halting  at  Bulwana  or  passing 
it,  on  their  way  to  Laing's  Neck.  If  they  were 
going  only  to  Bulwana  there  was  the  probability 
of  two  weeks'  more  fighting  before  they  could  be 
dislodged.  If  they  had  avoided  Bulwana,  the 
way  to  Ladysmith  was  open. 

Lord  Dundonald,  who  is  in  command  of  a 
brigade  of  irregular  cavalry,  was  scouting  to 
the  left  of  Bulwana,  far  in  advance  of  our  forces. 
At  sunset  he  arrived,  without  having  encountered 
the  Boers,  at  the  base  of  Bulwana.  He  could 
either  return  and  report  the  disappearance  of  the 

161 


The  Relief  of  Ladysmith 

enemy  or  he  could  make  a  dash  for  it  and  enter 
Ladysmith.  His  orders  were  "to  go,  look,  see," 
and  avoid  an  action,  and  the  fact  that  none  of  his 
brigade  was  in  the  triumphant  procession  which 
took  place  three  days  later  has  led  many  to  think 
that  in  entering  the  besieged  town  without  orders 
he  offended  the  commanding  general.  In  any 
event,  it  is  a  family  row  and  of  no  interest  to 
the  outsider.  The  main  fact  is  that  he  did  make 
a  dash  for  it,  and  just  at  sunset  found  himself 
with  two  hundred  men  only  a  mile  from  the 
"Doomed  City."  His  force  was  composed  of 
Natal  Carbiniers  and  Imperial  Light  Horse. 
He  halted  them,  and  in  order  that  honors  might 
be  even,  formed  them  in  sections  with  the  half 
sections  made  up  from  each  of  the  two  organ- 
izations. All  the  officers  were  placed  in  front, 
and  with  a  cheer  they  started  to  race  across  the 
plain. 

The  wig-waggers  on  Convent  Hill  had  already 
seen  them,  and  the  townspeople  and  the  garrison 
were  rushing  through  the  streets  to  meet  them, 
cheering  and  shouting,  and  some  of  them  weep- 
ing. Others,  so  officers  tell  me,  who  were  in  the 
different  camps,  looked  down  upon  the  figures 
galloping  across  the  plain  in  the  twilight,  and 
continued  making  tea. 

162 


The  Relief  of  Ladysmith 

Just  as  they  had  reached  the  centre  of  the 
town,  General  Sir  George  White  and  his  staff 
rode  down  from  head-quarters  and  met  the  men 
whose  coming  meant  for  him  life  and  peace  and 
success.  They  were  advancing  at  a  walk,  with 
the  cheering  people  hanging  to  their  stirrups, 
clutching  at  their  hands  and  hanging  to  the 
bridles  of  their  horses. 

General  White's  first  greeting  was  character- 
istically unselfish  and  loyal,  and  typical  of  the 
British  officer.  He  gave  no  sign  of  his  own  in- 
calculable relief,  nor  did  he  give  to  Caesar  the 
things  which  were  Caesar's.  He  did  not  cheer 
Dundonald,  nor  Duller,  nor  the  column  which 
had  rescued  him  and  his  garrison  from  present 
starvation  and  probable  imprisonment  at  Pre- 
toria. He  raised  his  helmet  and  cried,  "We 
will  give  three  cheers  for  the  Queen!"  And 
then  the  general  and  the  healthy,  ragged,  and 
sunburned  troopers  from  the  outside  world,  the 
starved,  fever-ridden  garrison,  and  the  starved, 
fever-ridden  civilians  stood  with  hats  off  and 
sang  their  national  anthem. 

The  column  outside  had  been  fighting  stead- 
ily for  six  weeks  to  get  Dundonald  or  any  one 
of  its  force  into  Ladysmith;  for  fourteen  days 
it  had  been  living  in  the  open,  fighting  by  night 

163 


The  Relief  of  Ladysmith 

as  well  as  by  day,  without  halt  or  respite;  the 
garrison  inside  had  been  for  four  months  hold- 
ing the  enemy  at  bay  with  the  point  of  the  bay- 
onet; it  was  famished  for  food,  it  was  rotten  with 
fever,  and  yet  when  the  relief  came  and  all  turned 
out  well,  the  first  thought  of  every  one  was  for  the 
Queen! 

It  may  be  credulous  in  them  or  old-fashioned, 
but  it  is  certainly  very  unselfish,  and  when  you 
take  their  point  of  view  it  is  certainly  very  fine. 

After  the  Queen  every  one  else  had  his  share 
of  the  cheering,  and  General  White  could  not  com- 
plain of  the  heartiness  with  which  they  greeted 
him.  He  tried  to  make  a  speech  in  reply,  but  it 
was  a  brief  one.  He  spoke  of  how  much  they 
owed  to  General  Buller  and  his  column,  and  he 
congratulated  his  own  soldiers  on  the  defence 
they  had  made. 

"I  am  very  sorry,  men,"  he  said,  "that  I  had 
to  cut  down  your  rations.  I — I  promise  you 
I  won't  do  it  again." 

Then  he  stopped  very  suddenly  and  whirled 
his  horse's  head  around  and  rode  away.  Judg- 
ing from  the  number  of  times  they  told  me  of 
this,  the  fact  that  they  had  all  but  seen  an  Eng- 
lish general  give  way  to  his  feelings  seemed  to 
have  impressed  the  civilian  mind  of  Ladysmith 

164 


The  Relief  of  Ladysmith 

more  than  the  entrance  of  the  relief  force.  The 
men  having  come  in  and  demonstrated  that  the 
way  was  open,  rode  forth  again,  and  the  relief 
of  Ladysmith  had  taken  place.  But  it  is  not 
the  people  cheering  in  the  dark  streets,  nor 
General  White  breaking  down  in  his  speech  of 
welcome,  which  gives  the  note  to  the  way  the 
men  of  Ladysmith  received  their  freedom.  It 
is  rather  the  fact  that  as  the  two  hundred  bat- 
tle-stained and  earth-stained  troopers  galloped 
forward,  racing  to  be  the  first,  and  rising  in  their 
stirrups  to  cheer,  the  men  in  the  hospital  camps 
said,  "Well,  they're  come  at  last,  have  they?" 
and  continued  fussing  over  their  fourth  of  a  ra- 
tion of  tea.  That  gives  the  real  picture  of  how 
Ladysmith  came  into  her  inheritance,  and  of  how 
she  received  her  rescuers. 

On  the  morning  after  Dundonald  had  ridden 
in  and  out  of  Ladysmith,  two  other  correspond- 
ents and  myself  started  to  relieve  it  on  our  own 
account.  We  did  not  know  the  way  to  Lady- 
smith,  and  we  did  not  then  know  whether  or  not 
the  Boers  still  occupied  Bulwana  Mountain.  But 
we  argued  that  the  chances  of  the  Boers  having 
raised  the  siege  were  so  good  that  it  was  worth 
risking  their  not  having  done  so,  and  being  taken 
prisoner. 

165 


The  Relief  of  Ladysmith 

We  carried  all  the  tobacco  we  could  pack  in 
our  saddle-bags,  and  enough  food  for  one  day. 
My  chief  regret  was  that  my  government,  with 
true  republican  simplicity,  had  given  me  a  pass- 
port, type-written  on  a  modest  sheet  of  note- 
paper  and  wofully  lacking  in  impressive  seals 
and  coats  of  arms.  I  fancied  it  would  look  to 
Boer  eyes  like  one  I  might  have  forged  for  my- 
self in  the  writing-room  of  the  hotel  at  Cape 
Town. 

We  had  ridden  up  Pieter's  Hill  and  scrambled 
down  on  its  other  side  before  we  learned  that 
the  night  before  Dundonald  had  raised  the  siege. 
We  learned  this  from  long  trains  of  artillery 
and  regiments  of  infantry  which  already  were 
moving  forward  over  the  great  plain  which  lies 
between  Pieter's  and  Bulwana.  We  learned  it 
also  from  the  silence  of  conscientious,  dutiful 
correspondents,  who  came  galloping  back  as  we 
galloped  forward,  and  who  made  wide  detours 
at  sight  of  us,  or  who,  when  we  hailed  them, 
lashed  their  ponies  over  the  red  rocks  and  pre- 
tended not  to  hear,  each  unselfishly  turning  his 
back  on  Ladysmith  in  the  hope  that  he  might 
be  the  first  to  send  word  that  the  "Doomed  City" 
was  relieved.  This  would  enable  one  paper  to 
say  that  it  had  the  news  "on  the  street"  five  min- 

166 


The  Relief  of  Ladysmith 

utes  earlier  than  its  hated  rivals.  We  found  that 
the  rivalry  of  our  respective  papers  bored  us. 
We  condemned  it  as  being  childish  and  weak. 
London,  New  York,  Chicago  were  names,  they 
were  spots  thousands  of  leagues  away:  Lady- 
smith  was  just  across  that  mountain.  If  our 
horses  held  out  at  the  pace,  we  would  be — after 
Dundonald — the  first  men  in.  We  imagined  that 
we  would  see  hysterical  women  and  starving  men. 
They  would  wring  our  hands,  and  say,  "God  bless 
you,"  and  we  would  halt  our  steaming  horses  in 
the  market-place,  and  distribute  the  news  of  the 
outside  world,  and  tobacco.  There  would  be 
shattered  houses,  roofless  homes,  deep  pits  in 
the  roadways  where  the  shells  had  burst  and 
buried  themselves.  We  would  see  the  entombed 
miner  at  the  moment  of  his  deliverance,  we  would 
be  among  the  first  from  the  outer  world  to  break 
the  spell  of  his  silence;  the  first  to  receive  the 
brunt  of  the  imprisoned  people's  gratitude  and 
rejoicings. 

Indeed,  it  was  clearly  our  duty  to  the  papers 
that  employed  us  that  we  should  not  send  them 
news,  but  that  we  should  be  the  first  to  enter 
Ladysmith.  We  were  surely  the  best  judges 
of  what  was  best  to  do.  How  like  them  to  try 
to  dictate  to  us  from  London  and  New  York, 

167 


The  Relief  of  Ladysmith 

when  we  were  on  the  spot!  It  was  absurd.  We 
shouted  this  to  each  other  as  we  raced  in  and  out 
of  the  long  confused  column,  lashing  viciously 
with  our  whips.  We  stumbled  around  pieces 
of  artillery,  slid  in  between  dripping  water-carts, 
dodged  the  horns  of  weary  oxen,  scattered  com- 
panies of  straggling  Tommies,  and  ducked  under 
protruding  tent-poles  on  the  baggage-wagons,  and 
at  last  came  out  together  again  in  advance  of  the 
dusty  column. 

"  Besides,  we  don't  know  where  the  press-censor 
is,  do  we  ?"  No,  of  course  we  had  no  idea  where 
the  press-censor  was,  and  unless  he  said  that 
Ladysmith  was  relieved,  the  fact  that  twenty- 
five  thousand  other  soldiers  said  so  counted  for 
idle  gossip.  Our  papers  could  not  expect  us  to 
go  riding  over  mountains  the  day  Ladysmith 
was  relieved,  hunting  for  a  press-censor.  "That 
press-censor,"  gasped  Hartland,  "never — is — 
where  he — ought  to  be."  The  words  were 
bumped  out  of  him  as  he  was  shot  up  and  down 
in  the  saddle.  That  was  it.  It  was  the  press- 
censor's  fault.  Our  consciences  were  clear  now. 
If  our  papers  worried  themselves  or  us  because 
they  did  not  receive  the  great  news  until  every  one 
else  knew  of  it,  it  was  all  because  of  that  press- 
censor.  We  smiled  again  and  spurred  the  horses 

1 68 


The  Relief  of  Ladysmith 

forward.  We  abused  the  press-censor  roundly — 
we  were  extremely  indignant  with  him.  It  was 
so  like  him  to  lose  himself  the  day  Ladysmith  was 
relieved.  "Confound  him,"  we  muttered,  and 
grinned  guiltily.  We  felt  as  we  used  to  feel 
when  we  were  playing  truant  from  school. 

We  were  nearing  Pieter's  Station  now,  and 
were  half-way  to  Ladysmith.  But  the  van  of 
the  army  was  still  about  us.  Was  it  possible 
that  it  stretched  already  into  the  beleaguered 
city?  Were  we,  after  all,  to  be  cheated  of  the 
first  and  freshest  impressions  ?  The  tall  lancers 
turned  at  the  sound  of  the  horses'  hoofs  and 
stared,  infantry  officers  on  foot  smiled  up  at  us 
sadly,  they  were  dirty  and  dusty  and  sweating, 
they  carried  rifles  and  cross  belts  like  the  Tom- 
mies, and  they  knew  that  we  outsiders  who  were 
not  under  orders  would  see  the  chosen  city  before 
them.  Some  of  them  shouted  to  us,  but  we  only 
nodded  and  galloped  on.  We  wanted  to  get  rid 
of  them  all,  but  they  were  interminable.  When 
we  thought  we  had  shaken  them  off,  and  that  we 
were  at  last  in  advance,  we  would  come  upon  a 
group  of  them  resting  on  the  same  ground  their 
shells  had  torn  up  during  the  battle  the  day  before. 

We  passed  Boer  laagers  marked  by  empty 
cans  and  broken  saddles  and  black,  cold  catnp- 

160 


The  Relief  of  Ladysmith 

fires.  At  Pieter's  Station  the  blood  was  still  fresh 
on  the  grass  where  two  hours  before  some  of  the 
South  African  Light  Horse  had  been  wounded. 

The  Boers  were  still  on  Bulwana  then  ?  Per- 
haps, after  all,  we  had  better  turn  back  and  try 
to  find  that  press-censor.  But  we  rode  on  and 
saw  Pieter's  Station,  as  we  passed  it,  as  an  ab- 
surd relic  of  by-gone  days  when  bridges  were 
intact  and  trains  ran  on  schedule  time.  One 
door  seen  over  the  shoulder  as  we  galloped  past 
read,  "Station  Master's  Office — Private,"  and  in 
contempt  of  that  stern  injunction,  which  would 
make  even  the  first-class  passenger  hesitate,  one  of 
our  shells  had  knocked  away  the  half  of  the  door 
and  made  its  privacy  a  mockery.  We  had  only 
to  follow  the  track  now  and  we  would  arrive  in 
time — unless  the  Boers  were  still  on  Bulwana. 
We  had  shaken  off  the  army,  and  we  were  two 
miles  in  front  of  it,  when  six  men  came  galloping 
toward  us  in  an  unfamiliar  uniform.  They  passed 
us  far  to  the  right,  regardless  of  the  trail,  and  gal- 
loping through  the  high  grass.  We  pulled  up 
when  we  saw  them,  for  they  had  green  facings  to 
their  gray  uniforms,  and  no  one  with  Buller's 
column  wore  green  facings. 

We  gave  a  yell  in  chorus.  "Are  you  from 
Ladysmith  ?"  we  shouted.  The  men,  before  they 

170 


The  Relief  of  Ladysmith 

answered,  wheeled  and  cheered,  and  came  toward 
us  laughing  jubilant.  "We're  the  first  men  out," 
cried  the  officer  and  we  rode  in  among  them, 
shaking  hands  and  offering,  our  good  wishes. 
"We're  glad  to  see  you,"  we  said.  "We're  glad 
to  see  yon"  they  said.  It  was  not  an  original 
greeting,  but  it  seemed  sufficient  to  all  of  us. 
"Are  the  Boers  on  Bulwana?"  we  asked.  "No, 
they've  trekked  up  Dundee  way.  You  can  go 
right  in." 

We  parted  at  the  word  and  started  to  go  right 
in.  We  found  the  culverts  along  the  railroad  cut 
away  and  the  bridges  down,  and  that  galloping 
ponies  over  the  roadbed  of  a  railroad  is  a  difficult 
feat  at  the  best,  even  when  the  road  is  in  working 
order. 

Some  men,  cleanly  dressed  and  rather  pale- 
looking,  met  us  and  said:  "Good-morning." 
"Are  you  from  Ladysmith?"  we  called.  "No, 
we're  from  the  neutral  camp,"  they  answered. 
We  were  the  first  men  from  outside  they  had 
seen  in  four  months,  and  that  was  the  extent 
of  their  interest  or  information.  They  had  put 
on  their  best  clothes,  and  were  walking  along 
the  track  to  Colenso  to  catch  a  train  south  to 
Durban  or  to  Maritzburg,  to  any  place  out  of 
the  neutral  camp.  They  might  have  been  som- 

171 


The  Relief  of  Ladysmith 

nambulists  for  all  they  saw  of  us,  or  of  the  Boer 
trenches  and  the  battle-field  before  them.  But 
we  found  them  of  greatest  interest,  especially 
their  clean  clothes.  Our  column  had  not  seen 
clean  linen  in  six  weeks,  and  the  sight  of  these 
civilians  in  white  duck  and  straw  hats,  and  carry- 
ing walking-sticks,  coming  toward  us  over  the 
railroad  ties,  made  one  think  it  was  Sunday  at 
home  and  these  were  excursionists  to  the  suburbs. 

We  had  been  riding  through  a  roofless  tunnel, 
with  the  mountain  and  the  great  dam  on  one 
side,  and  the  high  wall  of  the  railway  cutting 
on  the  other,  but  now  just  ahead  of  us  lay  the 
open  country,  and  the  exit  of  the  tunnel  barri- 
caded by  twisted  rails  and  heaped-up  ties  and 
bags  of  earth.  Bulwana  was  behind  us.  For 
eight  miles  it  had  shut  out  the  sight  of  our  goal, 
but  now,  directly  in  front  of  us,  was  spread  a 
great  city  of  dirty  tents  and  grass  huts  and  Red 
Cross  flags — the  neutral  camp — and  beyond  that, 
four  miles  away,  shimmering  and  twinkling  sleep- 
ily in  the  sun,  the  white  walls  and  zinc  roofs  of 
Ladysmith. 

We  gave  a  gasp  of  recognition  and  galloped 
into  and  through  the  neutral  camp.  Natives 
of  India  in  great  turbans,  Indian  women  in 
gay  shawls  and  nose-rings,  and  black  Kaffirs  in 

172 


The  Relief  of  Ladysmith 

discarded  khaki  looked  up  at  us  dully  from  the 
earth  floors  of  their  huts,  and  when  we  shouted 
"Which  way  ?"  and  "Where  is  the  bridge  ?"  only 
stared,  or  pointed  vaguely,  still  staring. 

After  all,  we  thought,  they  are  poor  creatures, 
incapable  of  emotion.  Perhaps  they  do  not 
know  how  glad  we  are  that  they  have  been  res- 
cued. They  do  not  understand  that  we  want 
to  shake  hands  with  everybody  and  offer  our 
congratulations.  Wait  until  we  meet  our  own 
people,  we  said,  they  will  understand!  It  was 
such  a  pleasant  prospect  that  we  whipped  the 
unhappy  ponies  into  greater  bursts  of  speed, 
not  because  they  needed  it,  but  because  we 
were  too  excited  and  impatient  to  sit  motionless. 

In  our  haste  we  lost  our  way  among  innumer- 
able little  trees;  we  disagreed  as  to  which  one 
of  the  many  cross-trails  led  home  to  the  bridge. 
We  slipped  out  of  our  stirrups  to  drag  the  ponies 
over  one  steep  place,  and  to  haul  them  up  another, 
and  at  last  the  right  road  lay  before  us,  and  a 
hundred  yards  ahead  a  short  iron  bridge  and  a 
Gordon  Highlander  waited  to  welcome  us,  to 
receive  our  first  greetings  and  an  assorted  collec- 
tion of  cigarettes.  Hartland  was  riding  a  thorough- 
bred polo  pony  and  passed  the  gallant  defender 
of  Ladysmith  without  a  kind  look  or  word,  but 


The  Relief  of  Ladysmith 

Blackwood  and  I  galloped  up  more  decorously, 
smiling  at  him  with  good-will.  The  soldier,  who 
had  not  seen  a  friend  from  the  outside  world  in 
four  months,  leaped  in  front  of  us  and  presented 
a  heavy  gun  and  a  burnished  bayonet. 

"Halt,  there,"  he  cried.  "Where's  your  pass  ?•" 
Of  course  it  showed  excellent  discipline — we 
admired  it  immensely.  We  even  overlooked  the 
fact  that  he  should  think  Boer  spies  would  enter 
the  town  by  way  of  the  main  bridge  and  at 
a  gallop.  We  liked  his  vigilance,  we  admired 
his  discipline,  but  in  spite  of  that  his  reception 
chilled  us.  We  had  brought  several  things  with 
us  that  we  thought  they  might  possibly  want  in 
Ladysmith,  but  we  had  entirely  forgotten  to  bring 
a  pass.  Indeed  I  do  not  believe  one  of  the  twenty- 
five  thousand  men  who  had  been  fighting  for  six 
weeks  to  relieve  Ladysmith  had  supplied  himself 
with  one.  The  night  before,  when  the  Ladysmith 
sentries  had  tried  to  halt  Dundonald's  troopers  in 
the  same  way,  and  demanded  a  pass  from  them, 
there  was  not  one  in  the  squadron. 

We  crossed  the  bridge  soberly  and  entered 
Ladysmith  at  a  walk.  Even  the  ponies  looked 
disconcerted  and  crestfallen.  After  the  high 
grass  and  the  mountains  of  red  rock,  where 
there  was  not  even  a  tent  to  remind  one  of  a 


The  Relief  of  Ladysmith 

roof-tree,  the  stone  cottages  and  shop-windows 
and  chapels  and  well-ordered  hedges  of  the  main 
street  of  Ladysmith  made  it  seem  a  wealthy 
and  attractive  suburb.  When  we  entered,  a 
Sabbath-like  calm  hung  upon  the  town;  officers 
in  the  smartest  khaki  and  glistening  Stowassers 
observed  us  askance,  little  girls  in  white  pina- 
fores passed  us  with  eyes  cast  down,  a  man  on 
a  bicycle  looked  up,  and  then,  in  terror  lest  we 
might  speak  to  him,  glued  his  eyes  to  the  wheel 
and  "scorched'*  rapidly.  We  trotted  forward 
and  halted  at  each  street  crossing,  looking  to 
the  right  and  left  in  the  hope  that  some  one  might 
nod  to  us.  From  the  opposite  end  of  the  town 
General  Duller  and  his  staff  came  toward  us 
slowly — the  house-tops  did  not  seem  to  sway — 
it  was  not  "roses,  roses  all  the  way."  The  Ger- 
man army  marching  into  Paris  received  as  hearty 
a  welcome.  "Why  didn't  you  people  cheer 
General  Bulier  when  he  came  in?"  we  asked 
later.  "Oh,  was  that  General  Bulier?"  they 
inquired.  "We  didn't  recognize  him."  "But 
you  knew  he  was  a  general  officer,  you  knew  he 
was  the  first  of  the  relieving  column?"  "Ye-es, 
but  we  didn't  know  who  he  was." 

I  decided  that  the  bare  fact  of  the  relief  of 
Ladysmith  was  all  I  would  be  able  to  wire  to 


The  Relief  of  Ladysmith 

my  neglected  paper,  and  with  remorses  started 
to  find  the  Ladysmith  censor.  Two  officers, 
with  whom  I  ventured  to  break  the  hush  that 
hung  upon  the  town  by  asking  my  way,  said 
they  were  going  in  the  direction  of  the  censor. 
We  rode  for  some  distance  in  guarded  silence. 
Finally,  one  of  them,  with  an  inward  struggle, 
brought  himself  to  ask,  "Are  you  from  the  out- 
side?" 

I  was  forced  to  admit  that  I  was.  I  felt  that 
I  had  taken  an  unwarrantable  liberty  in  intrud- 
ing on  a  besieged  garrison.  I  wanted  to  say  that 
I  had  lost  my  way  and  had  ridden  into  the  town 
by  mistake,  and  that  I  begged  to  be  allowed  to 
withdraw  with  apologies.  The  other  officer  woke 
up  suddenly  and  handed  me  a  printed  list  of  the 
prices  which  had  been  paid  during  the  siege  for 
food  and  tobacco.  He  seemed  to  offer  it  as  being 
in  some  way  an  official  apology  for  his  starved 
appearance.  The  price  of  cigars  struck  me  as 
especially  pathetic,  and  I  commented  on  it.  The 
first  officer  gazed  mournfully  at  the  blazing  sun- 
shine before  him.  "I  have  not  smoked  a  cigar  in 
two  months,"  he  said.  My  surging  sympathy, 
and  my  terror  at  again  offending  the  haughty 
garrison,  combated  so  fiercely  that  it  was  only 
with  a  great  effort  that  I  produced  a  handful. 

176 


The  Relief  of  Ladysmith 

"Will  you  have  these?"  The  other  officer 
started  in  his  saddle  so  violently  that  I  thought 
his  horse  had  stumbled,  but  he  also  kept  his 
eyes  straight  in  front.  "Thank  you,  I  will 
take  one  if  I  may — just  one,"  said  the  first 
officer.  "Are  you  sure  I  am  not  robbing  you?" 
They  each  took  one,  but  they  refused  to  put  the 
rest  of  the  cigars  in  their  pockets.  As  the  printed 
list  stated  that  a  dozen  matches  sold  for  $1.75,  I 
handed  them  a  box  of  matches.  Then  a  beauti- 
ful thing  happened.  They  lit  the  cigars  and  at 
the  first  taste  of  the  smoke — and  they  were  not 
good  cigars — an  almost  human  expression  of 
peace  and  good-will  and  utter  abandonment  to 
joy  spread  over  their  yellow  skins  and  cracked 
lips  and  fever-lit  eyes.  The  first  man  dropped 
his  reins  and  put  his  hands  on  his  hips  and  threw 
back  his  head  and  shoulders  and  closed  his  eye- 
lids. I  felt  that  I  had  intruded  at  a  moment 
which  should  have  been  left  sacred. 

Another  boy  officer  in  stainless  khaki  and 
beautifully  turned  out,  polished  and  burnished 
and  varnished,  but  with  the  same  yellow  skin 
and  sharpened  cheek-bones  and  protruding  teeth, 
a  skeleton  on  horse-back,  rode  slowly  toward  us 
down  the  hill.  As  he  reached  us  he  glanced  up 
and  then  swayed  in  his  saddle,  gazing  at  my  com- 

177 


[Price  List  Diiring  the  Siege\ 


Of 

x*  .A.  r>  IT  s  IM:  i 

1889-1900. 


certify  th&t  t>fa&  following  a/re 
the  eorreot  and  faiyfost  priws  r&alised 
a,t>  my  sales  oy  &uolio  G&uotwn 
the  aoove  <8iey6^ 

JOE  DYSON, 


LADVSMITH, 

FEBRUARY  2i5/,   1900, 

178 


i^-fts.  Oatmeal      ...  r...-  ...  2   19     6 

Condensed  Milk,  per  tin  ...  ...  o  10     O 

i  Ib.  Beef  Fat         ...  ...  ...  o  n     o 

i  fb.  Tin  Coffee      ...  ...  r,...  017     o 

alb.  Tin  Tongue     ...  ...  ^.  160 

I  Sucking  Pig        ...  ...  ...  117     o 

Eggs,  per  dozed     ...  r ...  ...  280 

Fowls,  each            ...  .,.  ...  o  18     6 

4  Small  Cucumbers  ...  ...  o  15     6 

Green  Mealies,  each  ,.. ,  , ,,.  038 

Small  plate  Grapes  ...  ...  i     50 

i  Small  plate  Apples  ...  ...  o  12     6 

i  Plate  Tomatoes  ....  ...  ...  Q  18     o 

i  Vegetable  Marrow  ...  ...  180 

i  Plate  Eschalots  ...  ...  .„  o  1 1     o 

i  Plate  Potatoes    ...  ...  ^  o  19    o 

3  Small  bunches  Carrots  ,^.,  ...  090 

i  Glass  Jelly          ,..  ,..  ...  0180 

i  to..  Bottle  Jam     ...  „.  „.  i    n     o 

I  Ib.  Tin  Marmalade  ...  ...  i      i     o 

i  dozen  Matches    ...  ...  ...  o  13     6 

i  pkt.  Cigarettes   ...  ...  .„  t     5     o 

50  Cigars               ...  „.  .„.  950 

>.  Cake  "  Fair  Maid  "  Tobacco  ...  250 

.  Cake  "  Fair  Maid "  „..  ...  350 

to.  Sailors  Tobacco  ...  ...  230 

tin  "  Capstan  "  Navy  Cut  Tobacco  300 


179 


The  Relief  of  Ladysmith 

panions  fearfully.  "Good  God,"  he  cried.  His 
brother  officers  seemed  to  understand,  but  made 
no  answer,  except  to  jerk  their  heads  toward  me. 
They  were  too  occupied  to  speak.  I  handed  the 
skeleton  a  cigar,  and  he  took  it  in  great  embarrass- 
ment, laughing  and  stammering  and  blushing. 
Then  I  began  to  understand;  I  began  to  appre- 
ciate the  heroic  self-sacrifice  of  the  first  two,  who, 
when  they  had  been  given  the  chance,  had  refused 
to  fill  their  pockets.  I  knew  then  that  it  was 
an  effort  worthy  of  the  V.  C. 

The  censor  was  at  his  post,  and  a  few  min- 
utes later  a  signal  officer  on  Convent  Hill  helio- 
graphed  my  cable  to  Bulwana,  where,  six  hours 
after  the  Boers  had  abandoned  it,  Buller's  own 
helios  had  begun  to  dance,  and  they  speeded  the 
cable  on  its  long  journey  to  the  newspaper  office 
on  the  Thames  Embankment. 

When  one  descended  to  the  streets  again — 
there  are  only  two  streets  which  run  the  full 
length  of  the  town — and  looked  for  signs  of 
the  siege,  one  found  them  not  in  the  shattered 
houses,  of  which  there  seemed  surprisingly  few, 
but  in  the  starved  and  fever-shaken  look  of  the 
people. 

1  The  cloak  of  indifference  which  every  English- 
man wears,  and  his  instinctive  dislike  to  make 

180 


The  Relief  of  Ladysmith 

much  of  his  feelings,  and,  in  this  case,  his  pluck, 
at  first  concealed  from  us  how  terribly  those  who 
had  been  inside  of  Ladysmith  had  suffered,  and 
how  near  to  the  breaking  point  they  were.  Their 
faces  were  the  real  index  to  what  they  had  passed 
through. 

Any  one  who  had  seen  our  men  at  Montauk 
Point  or  in  the  fever  camp  at  Siboney  needed  no 
hospital  list  to  tell  him  of  the  pitiful  condition  of 
the  garrison.  The  skin  on  their  faces  was  yel- 
low, and  drawn  sharply  over  the  brow  and  cheek- 
bones; their  teeth  protruded,  and  they  shambled 
along  like  old  men,  their  voices  ranging  from  a 
feeble  pipe  to  a  deep  whisper.  In  this  pitiable 
condition  they  had  been  forced  to  keep  night- 
watch  on  the  hill-crests,  in  the  rain,  to  lie  in  the 
trenches,  and  to  work  on  fortifications  and  bomb- 
proofs.  And  they  were  expected  to  do  all  of 
these  things  on  what  strength  they  could  get  from 
horse-meat,  biscuits  of  the  toughness  and  com- 
position of  those  that  are  fed  to  dogs,  and  on 
"mealies,"  which  is  what  we  call  corn. 

That  first  day  in  Ladysmith  gave  us  a  faint 
experience  as  to  what  the  siege  meant.  The 
correspondents  had  disposed  of  all  their  tobacco, 
and  within  an  hour  saw  starvation  staring  them 
in  the  face,  and  raced  through  the  town  to  rob 

181 


The  Relief  of  Ladysmith 

fellow-correspondents  who  had  just  arrived.  The 
new-comers  in  their  turn  had  soon  distributed  all 
they  owned,  and  came  tearing  back  to  beg  one 
of  their  own  cigarettes.  We  tried  to  buy  grass 
for  our  ponies,  and  were  met  with  pitying  con- 
tempt; we  tried  to  buy  food  for  ourselves,  and  were 
met  with  open  scorn.  I  went  to  the  only  hotel 
which  was  open  in  the  place,  and  offered  large 
sums  for  a  cup  of  tea. 

"Put  up  your  money,"  said  the  Scotchman 
in  charge,  sharply.  "What's  the  good  of  your 
money  ?  Can  your  horse  eat  money  ?  Can  you 
eat  money  ?  Very  well,  then,  put  it  away." 

The  great  dramatic  moment  after  the  raising 
of  the  siege  was  the  entrance  into  Ladysmith 
of  the  relieving  column.  It  was  a  magnificent, 
manly,  and  moving  spectacle.  You  must  im- 
agine the  dry,  burning  heat,  the  fine,  yellow  dust, 
the  white  glare  of  the  sunshine,  and  in  the  heat 
and  glare  and  dust  the  great  interminable  column 
of  men  in  ragged  khaki  crowding  down  the  main 
street,  twenty-two  thousand  strong,  cheering  and 
shouting,  with  the  sweat  running  off  their  red  faces 
and  cutting  little  rivulets  in  the  dust  that  caked 
their  cheeks.  Some  of  them  were  so  glad  that, 
though  in  the  heaviest  marching  order,  they 
leaped  up  and  down  and  stepped  out  of  line  to 

182 


The  Relief  of  Ladysmith 

dance  to  the  music  of  the  bagpipes.  For  hours 
they  crowded  past,  laughing,  joking,  and  cheering, 
or  staring  ahead  of  them,  with  lips  wide  apart, 
panting  in  the  heat  and  choking  with  the  dust, 
but  always  ready  to  turn  again  and  wave  their 
helmets  at  Sir  George  White. 

It  was  a  pitiful  contrast  which  the  two  forces 
presented.  The  men  of  the  garrison  were  in 
clean  khaki,  pipe-clayed  and  brushed  and  pol- 
ished, but  their  tunics  hung  on  them  as  loosely 
as  the  flag  around  its  pole,  the  skin  on  their 
cheek-bones  was  as  tight  and  as  yellow  as  the 
belly  of  a  drum,  their  teeth  protruded  through 
parched,  cracked  lips,  and  hunger,  fever,  and 
suffering  stared  from  out  their  eyes.  They 
were  so  ill  and  so  feeble  that  the  mere  exercise 
of  standing  was  too  severe  for  their  endurance, 
and  many  of  them  collapsed,  falling  back  to  the 
sidewalk,  rising  to  salute  only  the  first  troop  of 
each  succeeding  regiment.  This  done,  they  would 
again  sink  back  and  each  would  sit  leaning  his 
head  against  his  musket,  or  with  his  forehead 
resting  heavily  on  his  folded  arms.  In  com- 
parison the  relieving  column  looked  like  giants  as 
they  came  in  with  a  swinging  swagger,  their  uni- 
forms blackened  with  mud  and  sweat  and  blood- 
stains, their  faces  brilliantly  crimsoned  and  blis- 

183 


The  Relief  of  Ladysmith 

tered  and  tanned  by  the  dust  and  sun.  They 
made  a  picture  of  strength  and  health  and  aggres- 
siveness. Perhaps  the  contrast  was  strongest 
when  the  battalion  of  the  Devons  that  had  been 
on  foreign  service  passed  the  "reserve"  battalion 
which  had  come  from  England.  The  men  of 
the  two  battalions  had  parted  five  years  before  in 
India,  and  they  met  again  in  Ladysmith,  with 
the  men  of  one  battalion  lining  the  streets,  sick, 
hungry,  and  yellow,  and  the  others,  who  had  been 
fighting  six  weeks  to  reach  it,  marching  toward 
them,  robust,  red-faced,  and  cheering  mightily. 
As  they  met  they  gave  a  shout  of  recognition,  and 
the  men  broke  ranks  and  ran  forward,  calling 
each  other  by  name,  embracing,  shaking  hands, 
and  punching  each  other  in  the  back  and  shoul- 
ders. It  was  a  sight  that  very  few  men  watched 
unmoved.  Indeed,  the  whole  three  hours  was  one 
of  the  most  "brutal  assaults  upon  the  feelings" 
that  it  has  been  my  lot  to  endure.  One  felt  he 
had  been  entirely  lifted  out  of  the  politics  of  the 
war,  and  the  question  of  the  wrongs  of  the  Boers 
disappeared  before  a  simple  propostiton  of  brave 
men  saluting  brave  men. 

Early  in  the  campaign,  when  his  officers  had 
blundered,  General  White  had  dared  to  write:  "I 
alone  am  to  blame."  But  in  this  triumohal  pro- 

184 


The  Relief  of  Ladysmith 

cession  twenty-two  thousand  gentlemen  in  khaki 
wiped  that  line  off  the  slate,  and  wrote,  "Well 
done,  sir,"  in  its  place,  as  they  passed  before  him 
through  the  town  he  had  defended  and  saved. 


Ill 

THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  THE  BATTLE 

THE  Boer  "front"  was  at  Brandfort,  and,  as 
Lord  Roberts  was  advancing  upon  that  place, 
one  already  saw  in  the  head-lines,  "The  Battle  of 
Brandfort."  But  before  our  train  drew  out  of 
Pretoria  Station  we  learned  that  the  English  had 
just  occupied  Brandfort,  and  that  the  Boer  front 
had  been  pushed  back  to  Winburg. 

We  decided  that  Brandfort  was  an  impossible 
position  to  hold  anyway,  and  that  we  had  better 
leave  the  train  at  Winburg.  We  found  some 
selfish  consolation  for  the  Boer  repulse,  in  the 
fact  that  it  shortened  our  railroad  journey  by 
one  day.  The  next  morning  when  we  awoke  at 
the  Vaal  River  Station  the  train  despatcher  in- 
formed us  that  during  the  night  the  "Rooineks" 
had  taken  Winburg,  and  that  the  burghers  were 
gathered  at  Smaaldel. 

We  agreed  not  to  go  to  Winburg,  but  to  stop  off 
at  Smaaldel.  We  also  agreed  that  Winburg  was 
an  impossible  position  to  hold.  When  at  eleven 
o'clock  the  train  reached  Kroonstad,  we  learned 
that  Lord  Roberts  was  in  Smaaldel.  It  was 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

then  evident  that  if  our  train  kept  on  and  the 
British  army  kept  on  there  would  be  a  collision. 
So  we  stopped  at  Kroonstad.  In  talking  it  over 
we  decided  that,  owing  to  its  situation,  Smaaldel 
was  an  impossible  position  to  hold. 

The  Sand  River,  which  runs  about  forty  miles 
south  of  Kroonstad,  was  the  last  place  in  the 
Free  State  at  which  the  burghers  could  hope 
to  make  a  stand,  and  at  the  bridge  where  the 
railroad  spans  the  river,  and  at  a  drift  ten  miles 
lower  down,  the  Boers  and  Free  Staters  had  col- 
lected to  the  number  of  four  thousand.  Lord 
Roberts  and  his  advancing  column,  which  was 
known  to  contain  thirty-five  thousand  men,  were 
a  few  miles  distant  from  the  opposite  bank  of  the 
Sand  River.  There  was  an  equal  chance  that  the 
English  would  attempt  to  cross  at  the  drift  or  at 
the  bridge.  We  thought  they  would  cross  at  the 
drift,  and  stopped  for  the  night  at  Ventersburg, 
a  town  ten  miles  from  the  river. 

Ventersburg,  in  comparison  with  Kroonstad, 
where  we  had  left  them  rounding  up  stray  burgh- 
ers and  hurrying  them  to  the  firing-line,  and 
burning  official  documents  in  the  streets,  was 
calm. 

Ventersburg  was  not  destroying  incriminating 
documents  nor  driving  weary  burghers  from  its 

187 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

solitary  street.  It  was  making  them  welcome  at 
Jones's  Hotel.  The  sun  had  sunk  an  angry  crim- 
son, the  sure  sign  of  a  bloody  battle  on  the  mor- 
row, and  a  full  moon  had  turned  the  dusty  street 
and  the  veldt  into  which  it  disappeared  into  a  field 
of  snow. 

The  American  scouts  had  halted  at  Jones's 
Hotel,  and  the  American  proprietor  was  giving 
them  drinks  free.  Their  cowboy  spurs  jingled 
on  the  floor  of  the  bar-room,  on  the  boards  of 
the  verandas,  on  the  stone  floor  of  the  kitchen, 
and  in  the  billiard-room,  where  they  were  play- 
ing pool  as  joyously  as  though  the  English  were 
not  ten  miles  away.  Grave,  awkward  burghers 
rode  up,  each  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  and  leaving  his 
pony  to  wander  in  the  street  and  his  rifle  in  a 
corner,  shook  hands  with  every  one  solemnly,  and 
asked  for  coffee.  Italians  of  Garibaldi's  red- 
shirted  army,  Swedes  and  Danes  in  semi-uniform, 
Frenchman  in  high  boots  and  great  sombreros, 
Germans  with  the  sabre  cuts  on  their  cheeks  that 
had  been  given  them  at  the  university,  and  Russian 
officers  smoking  tiny  cigarettes  crowded  the  little 
dining-room,  and  by  the  light  of  a  smoky  lamp 
talked  in  many  tongues  of  Spion  Kop,  Sannahs- 
post,  Fourteen  Streams,  and  the  battle  on  the 
morrow. 

1 88 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

They  were  sun-tanned,  dusty,  stained,  and 
many  of  them  with  wounds  in  bandages.  They 
came  from  every  capital  of  Europe,  and  as  each 
took  his  turn  around  the  crowded  table,  they 
drank  to  the  health  of  every  nation,  save  one. 
When  they  had  eaten  they  picked  up  the  pony's 
bridle  from  the  dust  and  melted  into  the  moon- 
light with  a  wave  of  the  hand  and  a  "good  luck 
to  you."  There  were  no  bugles  to  sound  "boots 
and  saddles"  for  them,  no  sergeants  to  keep 
them  in  hand,  no  officers  to  pay  for  their  rations 
and  issue  orders. 

Each  was  his  own  officer,  his  conscience  was 
his  bugle-call,  he  gave  himself  orders.  They 
were  all  equal,  all  friends;  the  cowboy  and  the 
Russian  Prince,  the  French  socialist  from  La 
Villette  or  Montmartre,  with  a  red  sash  around 
his  velveteen  breeches,  and  the  little  French 
nobleman  from  the  Cercle  Royal  who  had  never 
before  felt  the  sun,  except  when  he  had  played 
lawn  tennis  on  the  Isle  de  Puteaux.  Each  had 
his  bandolier  and  rifle;  each  was  minding  his 
own  business,  which  was  the  business  of  all — to 
try  and  save  the  independence  of  a  free  people. 

The  presence  of  these  foreigners,  with  rifle 
in  hand,  showed  the  sentiment  and  sympathies 
of  the  countries  from  which  they  came.  These 

189 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

men  were  Europe's  real  ambassadors  to  the 
Republic  of  the  Transvaal.  The  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  their  countrymen  who  had  remained 
at  home  held  toward  the  Boer  the  same  feelings, 
but  they  were  not  so  strongly  moved;  not  so 
strongly  as  to  feel  that  they  must  go  abroad  to 
fight. 

These  foreigners  were  not  the  exception  in 
opinion,  they  were  only  exceptionally  advent- 
urous, exceptionally  liberty-loving.  They  were 
not  soldiers  of  fortune,  for  the  soldier  of  fortune 
fights  for  gain.  These  men  receive  no  pay,  no 
emolument,  no  reward.  They  were  the  few 
who  dared  do  what  the  majority  of  their  coun- 
trymen in  Europe  thought. 

At  Jones's  Hotel  that  night,  at  Ventersburg, 
it  was  as  though  a  jury  composed  of  men  from 
all  of  Europe  and  the  United  States  had  gathered 
in  judgment  on  the  British  nation. 

Outside  in  the  moonlight  in  the  dusty  road 
two  bearded  burghers  had  halted  me  to  ask 
the  way  to  the  house  of  the  commandant.  Be- 
tween them  on  a  Boer  pony  sat  a  man,  erect,  slim- 
waisted,  with  well-set  shoulders  and  chin  in  air, 
one  hand  holding  the  reins  high,  the  other  with 
knuckles  down  resting  on  his  hip.  The  Boer 
pony  he  rode,  nor  the  moonlight,  nor  the  veldt 

190 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

behind  him,  could  disguise  his  seat  and  pose. 
It  was  as  though  I  had  been  suddenly  thrown 
back  into  London  and  was  passing  the  cuirassed, 
gauntleted  guardsman,  motionless  on  his  black 
charger  in  the  sentry  gate  in  Whitehall.  Only 
now,  instead  of  a  steel  breastplate,  he  shivered 
through  his  thin  khaki,  and  instead  of  the  high 
boots,  his  legs  were  wrapped  in  twisted  putties. 

"When  did  they  take  you  ?"  I  asked. 

"Early  this  morning.  I  was  out  scouting," 
he  said.  He  spoke  in  a  voice  so  well  trained  and 
modulated  that  I  tried  to  see  his  shoulder-straps. 

"Oh,  you  are  an  officer?"  I  said. 

"No,  sir,  a  trooper.     First  Life  Guards." 

But  in  the  moonlight  I  could  see  him  smile, 
whether  at  my  mistake  or  because  it  was  not  a 
mistake  I  could  not  guess.  There  are  many 
gentlemen  rankers  in  this  war. 

He  made  a  lonely  figure  in  the  night,  his  helmet 
marking  him  as  conspicuously  as  a  man  wearing 
a  high  hat  in  a  church.  From  the  billiard-room, 
where  the  American  scouts  were  playing  pool, 
came  the  click  of  the  ivory  and  loud,  light-hearted 
laughter;  fro/m  the  veranda  the  sputtering  of 
many  strange  tongues  and  the  deep,  lazy  voices  of 
the  Boers.  There  were  Boers  to  the  left  of  him, 
Boers  to  the  right  of  him,  pulling  at  their  long, 

191 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

drooping  pipes  and  sending  up  big  rings  of  white 
smoke  in  the  white  moonlight. 

He  dismounted,  and  stood  watching  the  crowd 
about  him  under  half-lowered  eyelids,  but  as 
unmoved  as  though  he  saw  no  one.  He  threw  his 
arm  over  the  pony's  neck  and  pulled  its  head 
down  against  his  chest  and  began  talking  to  it. 

It  was  as  though  he  wished  to  emphasize  his 
loneliness. 

"You  are  not  tired,  are  you  ?  No,  you're  not," 
he  said.  His  voice  was  as  kindly  as  though  he 
were  speaking  to  a  child. 

"Oh,  but  you  can't  be  tired.  What?"  he 
whispered.  "A  little  hungry,  perhaps.  Yes?" 
He  seemed  to  draw  much  comfort  from  his  friend 
the  pony,  and  the  pony  rubbed  his  head  against 
the  Englishman's  shoulder. 

"The  commandant  says  he  will  question  you 
in  the  morning.  You  will  come  with  us  to  the 
jail  now,"  his  captor  directed.  "You  will  find 
diree  of  your  people  there  to  talk  to.  I  will  go 
t>ring  a  blanket  for  you,  it  is  getting  cold."  And 
they  rode  off  together  into  the  night. 

Two  days  later  he  would  have  heard  through 
the  windows  of  Jones's  Hotel  the  billiard  balls 
still  clicking  joyously,  but  the  men  who  held  the 
cues  then  would  have  worn  helmets  like  his  own. 

192 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

The  original  Jones,  the  proprietor  of  Jones's 
Hotel,  had  fled.  The  man  who  succeeded  him  was 
also  a  refugee,  and  the  present  manager  was  an 
American  from  Cincinnati.  He  had  never  before 
kept  a  hotel,  but  he  confided  to  me  that  it  was 
not  a  bad  business,  as  he  found  that  on  each  drink 
sold  he  made  a  profit  of  a  hundred  per  cent.  The 
proprietress  was  a  lady  from  Brooklyn;  her  hus- 
band, another  American,  was  a  prisoner  with 
Cronje  at  St.  Helena.  She  was  in  considerable 
doubt  as  to  whether  she  ought  to  run  before  the 
British  arrived,  or  wait  and  chance  being  made 
a  prisoner.  She  said  she  would  prefer  to  escape, 
but  what  with  standing  on  her  feet  all  day  in 
the  kitchen  preparing  meals  for  hungry  burghers 
and  foreign  volunteers,  she  was  too  tired  to  get 
away. 

War  close  at  hand  consists  so  largely  of  com- 
monplaces and  trivial  details  that  I  hope  I  may 
be  pardoned  for  recording  the  anxieties  and  cares 
of  this  lady  from  Brooklyn.  Her  point  of  view 
so  admirably  illustrates  one  side  of  war.  It  is 
only  when  you  are  ten  years  away  from  it,  or  ten 
thousand  miles  away  from  it,  that  you  forget  the 
dull  places,  and  only  the  moments  loom  up  which 
are  terrible,  picturesque,  and  momentous.  We 
have  read,  in  "Vanity  Fair,"  of  the  terror  and  the 

193 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

mad  haste  to  escape  of  the  people  of  Brussels  on 
the  eve  of  Waterloo.  That  is  the  obvious  and 
dramatic  side. 

That  is  the  picture  of  war  you  remember  and 
which  appeals.  As  a  rule,  people  like  to  read  of 
the  rumble  of  cannon  through  the  streets  of  Ven- 
tersburg,  the  silent,  dusty  columns  of  the  re-en- 
forcements passing  in  the  moonlight,  the  gallop- 
ing hoofs  of  the  aides  suddenly  beating  upon  the 
night  air  and  growing  fainter  and  dying  away, 
the  bugle-calls  from  the  camps  along  the  river, 
the  stamp  of  spurred  boots  as  the  general  himself 
enters  the  hotel  and  spreads  the  blue-print  maps 
upon  the  table,  the  clanking  sabres  of  his  staff, 
standing  behind  him  in  the  candle-light,  whisper- 
ing and  tugging  at  their  gauntlets  while  the  great 
man  plans  his  attack.  You  must  stop  with  the 
British  army  if  you  want  bugle-calls  and  clank- 
ing sabres  and  gauntlets.  They  are  a  part  of 
the  panoply  of  war  and  of  warriors.  But  we 
saw  no  warriors  at  Ventersburg  that  night,  only  a 
few  cattle-breeders  and  farmers  who  were  fighting 
for  the  land  they  had  won  from  the  lion  and  the 
bushman,  and  with  them  a  mixed  company  of 
gentleman  adventurers — gathered  around  a  table 
discussing  other  days  in  other  lands.  The  pict- 
ure of  war  which  is  most  familiar  is  the  one  of 

194 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

the  people  of  Brussels  fleeing  from  the  city  with 
the  French  guns  booming  in  the  distance,  or  as 
one  sees  it  in  "Shenandoah,"  where  aides  gallop 
on  and  off  the  stage  and  the  night  signals  flash 
from  both  sides  of  the  valley.  That  is  the  ob- 
vious and  dramatic  side;  the  other  side  of  war 
is  the  night  before  the  battle,  at  Jones's  Hotel; 
the  landlady  in  the  dining-room  with  her  elbows 
on  the  table,  fretfully  deciding  that  after  a  day 
in  front  of  the  cooking-stove  she  is  too  tired  to 
escape  an  invading  army,  declaring  that  the  one 
place  at  which  she  would  rather  be  at  that  mo- 
ment was  Green's  restaurant  in  Philadelphia, 
the  heated  argument  that  immediately  follows  be- 
tween the  foreign  legion  and  the  Americans  as  ^o 
whether  Rector's  is  not  better  than  the  Cafe  de 
Paris,  and  the  general  agreement  that  Ritz  cannot 
hope  to  run  two  hotels  in  London  without  being 
robbed.  That  is  how  the  men  talked  and  acted 
on  the  eve  of  a  battle.  We  heard  no  galloping 
aides,  no  clanking  spurs,  only  the  click  of  the 
clipped  billiard  balls  as  the  American  scouts  (who 
were  killed  thirty-six  hours  later)  knocked  them 
about  the  torn  billiard-cloth,  the  drip,  drip  of 
the  kerosene  from  a  blazing,  sweating  lamp,  which 
struck  the  dirty  table-cloth,  with  the  regular  tick- 
ing of  a  hall  clock,  and  the  complaint  of  the  piano 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

from  the  hotel  parlor,  where  the  correspondent  of 
a  Boston  paper  was  picking  out  "Hello,  My 
Baby,"  laboriously  with  one  finger.  War  is  not 
so  terribly  dramatic  or  exciting — at  the  time;  and 
the  real  trials  of  war — at  the  time,  and  not  as  one 
later  remembers  them — consist  largely  in  looting 
fodder  for  your  ponies  and  in  bribing  the  sta- 
tion-master to  put  on  an  open  truck  in  which  to 
carry  them. 

We  were  wakened  about  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning  by  a  loud  knocking  on  a  door  and  the 
distracted  voice  of  the  local  justice  of  the  peace 
calling  upon  the  landlord  to  rouse  himself  and 
fly.  The  English,  so  the  voice  informed  the 
various  guests,  as  door  after  door  was  thrown 
open  upon  the  court-yard,  were  at  Ventersburg 
Station,  only  two  hours  away.  The  justice  of  the 
peace  wanted  to  buy  or  to  borrow  a  horse,  and 
wanted  it  very  badly,  but  a  sleepy-eyed  and  scepti- 
cal audience  told  him  unfeelingly  that  he  was 
either  drunk  or  dreaming,  and  only  the  landlady, 
now  apparently  refreshed  after  her  labors,  was 
keenly,  even  hysterically,  intent  on  instant  flight. 
She  sat  up  in  her  bed  with  her  hair  in  curl  papers 
and  a  revolver  beside  her,  and  through  her  open 
door  shouted  advice  to  her  lodgers.  But  they  were 
unsympathetic,  and  reassured  her  only  by  bang- 

196 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

ing  their  doors  and  retiring  with  profane  grum- 
bling, and  in  a  few  moments  the  silence  was  broken 
only  by  the  voice  of  the  justice  as  he  fled  down  the 
main  street  of  Ventersburg  offering  his  kingdom 
for  a  horse. 

The  next  morning  we  rode  out  to  the  Sand 
River  to  see  the  Boer  positions  near  the  drift, 
and  met  President  Steyn  in  his  Cape  cart  coming 
from  them  on  his  way  to  the  bridge.  Ever  since 
the  occupation  of  Bloemfontein,  the  London 
papers  had  been  speaking  of  him  as  "the  Late 
President,"  as  though  he  were  dead.  He  im- 
pressed me,  on  the  contrary,  as  being  very  much 
alive  and  very  much  the  President,  although  his 
executive  chamber  was  the  dancing-hall  of  a  hotel 
and  his  roof-tree  the  hood  of  a  Cape  cart.  He 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and  talked  hope- 
fully of  the  morrow.  He  had  been  waiting,  he 
said,  to  see  the  development  of  the  enemy's  at- 
tack, but  the  British  had  not  appeared,  and,  as  he 
believed  they  would  not  advance  that  day,  he  was 
going  on  to  the  bridge  to  talk  to  his  burghers  and 
to  consult  with  General  Botha.  He  was  much 
more  a  man  of  the  world  and  more  the  profes- 
sional politician  than  President  Kruger.  I  use 
the  words  "professional  politician"  in  no  un- 
pleasant sense,  but  meaning  rather  that  he  was 

197 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

ready,  tactful,  and  diplomatic.  For  instance, 
he  gave  to  whatever  he  said  the  air  of  a  confi- 
dence reserved  especially  for  the  ear  of  the  per- 
son to  whom  he  spoke.  He  showed  none  of  the 
bitterness  which  President  Kruger  exhibits  to- 
ward the  British,  but  took  the  tone  toward  the 
English  Government  of  the  most  critical  and 
amused  tolerance.  Had  he  heard  it,  it  would 
have  been  intensely  annoying  to  any  English- 
man. 

"I  see  that  the  London  Chronicle"  he  said, 
"asks  if,  since  I  have  become  a  rebel,  I  do  not 
lose  my  rights  as  a  Barrister  of  the  Temple  ? 
Of  course,  we  are  no  more  rebels  than  the  Span- 
iards were  rebels  against  the  United  States.  By 
a  great  stretch  of  the  truth,  under  the  suzerainty 
clause,  the  burghers  of  the  Transvaal  might  be 
called  rebels,  but  a  Free  Stater — never!  It  is 
not  the  animosity  of  the  English  which  I  mind," 
he  added,  thoughtfully,  "but  their  depressing  igno- 
rance of  their  own  history." 

His  cheerfulness  and  hopefulness,  even  though 
one  guessed  they  were  assumed,  commanded  one's 
admiration.  He  was  being  hunted  out  of  one 
village  after  another,  the  miles  of  territory  still 
free  to  him  were  hourly  shrinking — in  a  few 
days  he  would  be  a  refugee  in  the  Transvaal; 

198 


President  Steyn  on  his  way  to  Sand  River  battle 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

but  he  stood  in  the  open  veldt  with  all  his  pos- 
sessions in  the  cart  behind  him,  a  president  with- 
out a  republic,  a  man  without  a  home,  but  still 
full  of  pluck,  cheerful  and  unbeaten. 

The  farm-house  of  General  Andrew  Cronje 
stood  just  above  the  drift  and  was  the  only 
conspicuous  mark  for  the  English  guns  on  our 
side  of  the  river,  so  in  order  to  protect  it  the 
general  had  turned  it  over  to  the  ambulance 
corps  to  be  used  as  a  hospital.  They  had  lashed 
a  great  Red  Cross  flag  to  the  chimney  and  filled 
the  clean  shelves  of  the  generously  built  kitchen 
with  bottles  of  antiseptics  and  bitter-smelling 
drugs  and  surgeons'  cutlery.  President  Steyn 
gave  me  a  letter  to  Dr.  Rodgers  Reid,  who  was  in 
charge,  and  he  offered  us  our  choice  of  the  de- 
serted bedrooms.  It  was  a  most  welcome  shelter, 
and  in  comparison  to  the  cold  veldt  the  hospital 
was  a  haven  of  comfort.  Hundreds  of  cooing 
doves,  stumbling  over  the  roof  of  the  barn,  helped 
to  fill  the  air  with  their  peaceful  murmur.  It  was 
a  strange  overture  to  a  battle,  but  in  time  I  learned 
to  not  listen  for  any  more  martial  prelude.  The 
Boer  does  not  make  a  business  of  war,  and  when 
he  is  not  actually  fighting  he  pretends  that  he  is 
camping  out  for  pleasure.  In  his  laager  there 
are  no  warlike  sounds,  no  sentries  challenge,  no 

199 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

bugles  call.  He  has  no  duties  to  perform,  for 
his  Kaffir  boys  care  for  his  pony,  gather  his  wood, 
and  build  his  fire.  He  has  nothing  to  do  but  to 
wait  for  the  next  fight,  and  to  make  the  time  pass 
as  best  he  can.  In  camp  the  burghers  are  like 
a  party  of  children.  They  play  games  with  each 
other,  and  play  tricks  upon  each  other,  and  en- 
gage in  numerous  wrestling  bouts,  a  form  of  con- 
test of  which  they  seem  particularly  fond.  They 
are  like  children  also  in  that  they  are  direct  and 
simple,  and  as  courteous  as  the  ideal  child  should 
be.  Indeed,  if  I  were  asked  what  struck  me  as 
the  chief  characteristics  of  the  Boer  I  should  say 
they  were  the  two  qualities  which  the  English 
have  always  disallowed  him,  his  simplicity  rather 
than  his  "cuteness,"  and  his  courtesy  rather  than 
his  boorishness. 

The  force  that  waited  at  the  drift  by  Cronje's 
farm  as  it  lay  spread  out  on  both  sides  of  the 
river  looked  like  a  gathering  of  Wisconsin  lum- 
bermen, of  Adirondack  guides  and  hunters  halted 
at  Paul  Smith's,  like  a  Methodist  camp-meeting 
limited  entirely  to  men. 

The  eye  sought  in  vain  for  rows  of  tents,  for 
the  horses  at  the  picket  line,  for  the  flags  that 
marked  the  head-quarters,  the  commissariat,  the 
field  telegraph,  the  field  post-office,  the  A.  S.  C., 

200 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

the  R.  M.  A.  C,  the  C.  O.,  and  all  the  other  com- 
binations of  letters  of  the  military  alphabet. 

I  remembered  that  great  army  of  General 
Buller's  as  I  saw  it  stretching  out  over  the  basin 
of  the  Tugela,  like  the  children  of  Israel  in  num- 
ber, like  Tammany  Hall  in  organization  and  dis- 
cipline, with  not  a  tent-pin  missing;  with  hospi- 
tals as  complete  as  those  established  for  a  hundred 
years  in  the  heart  of  London;  with  search-lights, 
heliographs,  war  balloons,  Roentgen  rays,  pon- 
toon bridges,  telegraph  wagons,  and  trenching 
tools,  farriers  with  anvils,  major-generals,  map- 
makers,  "gallopers,"  intelligence  departments, 
even  biographs  and  press-censors;  every  kind  of 
thing  and  every  kind  of  man  that  goes  to  make 
up  a  British  army  corps.  I  knew  that  seven  miles 
from  us  just  such  another  completely  equipped 
and  disciplined  column  was  advancing  to  the  op- 
posite bank  of  the  Sand  River. 

And  opposed  to  it  was  this  merry  company 
of  Boer  farmers  lying  on  the  grass,  toasting 
pieces  of  freshly  killed  ox  on  the  end  of  a  stick, 
their  hobbled  ponies  foraging  for  themselves  a 
half-mile  away,  a  thousand  men  without  a  tent 
among  them,  without  a  field-glass. 

It  was  a  picnic,  a  pastoral  scene,  not  a  scene 
of  war.  On  the  hills  overlooking  the  drift  were 

201 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

the  guns,  but  down  along  the  banks  the  burghers 
were  sitting  in  circles  singing  the  evening  hymns, 
many  of  them  sung  to  the  tunes  familiar  in  the 
service  of  the  Episcopal  Church,  so  that  it  sounded 
like  a  Sunday  evening  in  the  country  at  home. 
At  the  drift  other  burghers  were  watering  the 
oxen,  bathing  and  washing  in  the  cold  river; 
around  the  camp-fires  others  were  smoking  lux- 
uriously, with  their  saddles  for  pillows.  The 
evening  breeze  brought  the  sweet  smell  of  burn- 
ing wood,  a  haze  of  smoke  from  many  fires,  the 
lazy  hum  of  hundreds  of  voices  rising  in  the  open 
air,  the  neighing  of  many  horses,  and  the  swift 
soothing  rush  of  the  river. 

When  morning  came  to  Cronje's  farm  it  brought 
with  it  no  warning  nor  sign  of  battle.  We  began 
to  believe  that  the  British  army  was  an  inven- 
tion of  the  enemy's.  So  we  cooked  bacon  and 
fed  the  doves,  and  smoked  on  the  veranda,  moving 
our  chairs  around  it  with  the  sun,  and  argued  as 
to  whether  we  should  stay  where  we  were  or  go 
on  to  the  bridge.  At  noon  it  was  evident  there 
would  be  no  fight  at  the  drift  that  day,  so  we 
started  along  the  bank  of  the  river,  with  the  idea 
of  reaching  the  bridge  before  nightfall.  The  trail 
lay  on  the  English  side  of  the  river,  so  that  we 
were  in  constant  concern  lest  our  white-hooded 

202 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

Cape  cart  would  be  seen  by  some  of  their  scouts 
and  we  would  be  taken  prisoners  and  forced  to 
travel  all  the  way  back  to  Cape  Town.  We  saw 
many  herds  of  deer,  but  no  scouts  or  lancers, 
and,  such  being  the  effect  of  many  kopjes,  lost  all 
ideas  as  to  where  we  were.  We  knew  we  were 
bearing  steadily  south  toward  Lord  Roberts,  who 
as  we  later  learned,  was  then  some  three  miles 
distant. 

About  two  o'clock  his  guns  opened  on  our 
left,  so  we  at  least  knew  that  we  were  still  on  the 
wrong  side  of  the  river  and  that  we  must  be  be- 
tween the  Boer  and  the  English  artillery.  Ex- 
cept for  that,  our  knowledge  of  our  geographical 
position  was  a  blank,  and  we  accordingly  "out- 
spanned"  and  cooked  more  bacon.  "Outspan- 
ning"  is  unharnessing  the  ponies  and  mules  and 
turning  them  out  to  graze,  and  takes  three  min- 
utes— "inspanning"  is  trying  to  catch  them  again, 
and  takes  from  three  to  five  hours. 

We  started  back  over  the  trail  over  which  we 
had  come,  and  just  at  sunset  saw  a  man  appear 
from  behind  a  rock  and  disappear  again.  Whether 
he  was  Boer  or  Briton  I  could  not  tell,  but  while 
I  was  examining  the  rock  with  my  glasses  two 
Boers  came  galloping  forward  and  ordered  me  to 
"hands  up."  To  sit  with  both  arms  in  the  air  is 

203 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

an  extremely  ignominious  position,  and  especially 
annoying  if  the  pony  is  restless,  so  I  compromised 
by  waving  my  whip  as  high  as  I  could  reach  with 
one  hand,  and  still  held  in  the  horse  with  the 
other.  The  third  man  from  behind  the  rock 
rode  up  at  the  same  time.  They  said  they  had 
watched  us  coming  from  the  English  lines,  and 
that  we  were  prisoners.  We  assured  them  that 
for  us  nothing  could  be  more  satisfactory,  because 
we  now  knew  where  we  were,  and  because  they 
had  probably  saved  us  a  week's  trip  to  Cape 
Town.  They  examined  and  approved  of  our 
credentials,  and  showed  us  the  proper  trail  which 
we  managed  to  follow  until  they  had  disappeared, 
when  the  trail  disappeared  also,  and  we  were 
again  lost  in  what  seemed  an  interminable  valley. 
But  just  before  nightfall  the  fires  of  the  commando 
showed  in  front  of  us  and  we  rode  into  the  camp 
of  General  Christian  De  Wet.  He  told  us  we 
could  not  reach  the  bridge  that  night,  and  showed 
us  a  farm-house  on  a  distant  kopje  where  we 
could  find  a  place  to  spread  our  blankets.  I  was 
extremely  glad  to  meet  him,  as  he  and  General 
Botha  are  the  most  able  and  brave  of  the  Boer 
generals.  He  was  big,  manly,  and  of  impressive 
size,  and,  although  he  speaks  English,  he  dictated 
to  his  adjutant  many  long  and  Old-World  com- 

204 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

pliments  to  the  Greater  Republic  across  the 
seas. 

We  found  the  people  in  the  farm-house  on 
the  distant  kopje  quite  hysterical  over  the  near 
presence  of  the  British,  and  the  entire  place  in 
such  an  uproar  that  we  slept  out  in  the  veldt. 
In  the  morning  we  were  awakened  by  the  sound 
of  the  Vickar-Maxim  or  the  "pom-pom"  as  the 
English  call  it,  or  "bomb-Maxim"  as  the  Boers 
call  it.  By  any  name  it  was  a  remarkable  gun 
and  the  most  demoralizing  of  any  of  the  smaller 
pieces  which  have  been  used  in  this  campaign. 
One  of  its  values  is  that  its  projectiles  throw  up 
sufficient  dust  to  enable  the  gunner  to  tell  exactly 
where  they  strike,  and  within  a  few  seconds  he 
is  able  to  alter  the  range  accordingly.  In  this 
way  it  is  its  own  range-finder.  Its  bark  is  almost 
as  dangerous  as  its  bite,  for  its  reports  have  a 
brisk,  insolent  sound  like  a  postman's  knock,  or 
a  cooper  hammering  rapidly  on  an  empty  keg, 
and  there  is  an  unexplainable  mocking  sound  to 
the  reports,  as  though  the  gun  were  laughing  at 
you.  The  English  Tommies  used  to  call  it  very 
aptly  the  "hyena  gun."  I  found  it  much  less 
offensive  from  the  rear  than  when  I  was  with  the 
British,  and  in  front  of  it. 

From  the  top  of  a  kopje  we  saw  that  the  battle 
205 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

had  at  last  begun  and  that  the  bridge  was  the 
objective  point.  The  English  came  up  in  great 
lines  and  blocks  and  from  so  far  away  and  in 
such  close  order  that  at  first  in  spite  of  the  khaki 
they  looked  as  though  they  wore  uniforms  of  blue. 
They  advanced  steadily,  and  two  hours  later  when 
we  had  ridden  to  a  kopje  still  nearer  the  bridge, 
they  were  apparently  in  the  same  formation  as 
when  we  had  first  seen  them,  only  now  farms 
that  had  lain  far  in  their  rear  were  overrun  by 
them  and  they  encompassed  the  whole  basin.  An 
army  of  twenty-five  thousand  men  advancing  in 
full  view  across  a  great  plain  appeals  to  you  as 
something  entirely  lacking  in  the  human  element. 
You  do  not  think  of  it  as  a  collection  of  very  tired, 
dusty,  and  perspiring  men  with  aching  legs  and 
parched  lips,  but  as  an  unnatural  phenomenon, 
or  a  gigantic  monster  which  wipes  out  a  railway 
station,  a  cornfield,  and  a  village  with  a  single 
clutch  of  one  of  its  tentacles.  You  would  as 
soon  attribute  human  qualities  to  a  plague,  a 
tidal  wave,  or  a  slowly  slipping  landslide.  One 
of  the  tentacles  composed  of  six  thousand  horse 
had  detached  itself  and  crossed  the  river  below 
the  bridge,  where  it  was  creeping  up  on  Botha's 
right.  We  could  see  the  burghers  galloping 
before  it  toward  Ventersburg.  At  the  bridge 

206 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

General  Botha  and  President  Steyn  stood  in  the 
open  road  and  with  uplifted  arms  waved  the 
Boers  back,  calling  upon  them  to  stand.  But 
the  burghers  only  shook  their  heads  and  with 
averted  eyes  grimly  and  silently  rode  by  them  on 
the  other  side.  They  knew  they  were  flanked, 
they  knew  the  men  in  the  moving  mass  in  front 
of  them  were  in  the  proportion  of  nine  to 
one. 

When  you  looked  down  upon  the  lines  of  the 
English  army  advancing  for  three  miles  across 
the  plain,  one  could  hardly  blame  them.  The 
burghers  did  not  even  raise  their  Mausers.  One 
bullet,  the  size  of  a  broken  slate-pencil,  fall- 
ing into  a  block  three  miles  across  and  a  mile 
deep,  seems  so  inadequate.  It  was  like  trying 
to  turn  back  the  waves  of  the  sea  with  a  blow- 
pipe. 

It  is  true  they  had  held  back  as  many  at  Co- 
lenso,  but  the  defensive  positions  there  were  mag- 
nificent, and  since  then  six  months  had  passed, 
during  which  time  the  same  thirty  thousand  men 
who  had  been  fighting  then  were  fighting  still, 
while  the  enemy  was  always  new,  with  fresh  re- 
cruits and  re-enforcements  arriving  daily. 

As  the  English  officers  at  Durban,  who  had  so 
lately  arrived  from  home  that  they  wore  swords, 

207 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

used  to  say  with  the  proud  consciousness  of  two 
hundred  thousand  men  back  of  them :  "  It  won't 
last  much  longer  now.  The  Boers  have  had  their 
belly  full  of  fighting.  They're  fed  up  on  it; 
that's  what  it  is;  they're  fed  up." 

They  forgot  that  the  Boers,  who  for  three 
months  had  held  Buller  back  at  the  Tugela, 
were  the  same  Boers  who  were  rushed  across 
the  Free  State  to  rescue  Cronje  from  Roberts, 
and  who  were  then  sent  to  meet  the  relief  column 
at  Fourteen  Streams,  and  were  then  ordered  back 
again  to  harass  Roberts  at  Sannahspost,  and  who, 
at  last,  worn  out,  stale,  heartsick,  and  hopeless  at 
the  unequal  odds  and  endless  fighting,  fell  back 
at  Sand  River. 

For  three  months  thirty  thousand  men  had 
been  attempting  the  impossible  task  of  endeavor- 
ing to  meet  an  equal  number  of  the  enemy  in  three 
different  places  at  the  same  time. 

I  have  seen  a  retreat  in  Greece  when  the  men, 
before  they  left  the  trenches,  stood  up  in  them 
and  raged  and  cursed  at  the  advancing  Turk, 
cursed  at  their  government,  at  their  king,  at  each 
other,  and  retreated  with  shame  in  their  faces 
because  they  did  so. 

But  the  retreat  of  the  burghers  of  the  Free 
State  was  not  like  that.  They  rose  one  by  one 

208 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

and  saddled  their  ponies,  with  the  look  in  their 
faces  of  men  who  had  been  attending  the  funeral 
of  a  friend  and  who  were  leaving  just  before 
the  coffin  was  swallowed  in  the  grave.  Some 
of  them,  for  a  long  time  after  the  greater  num- 
ber of  the  commando  had  ridden  away,  sat  upon 
the  rocks  staring  down  into  the  sunny  valley 
below  them,  talking  together  gravely,  rising  to 
take  a  last  look  at  the  territory  which  was  their 
own.  The  shells  of  the  victorious  British  sang 
triumphantly  over  the  heads  of  their  own  artillery, 
bursting  impotently  in  white  smoke  or  tearing 
up  the  veldt  in  fountains  of  dust. 

But  they  did  not  heed  them.  They  did  not 
even  send  a  revengeful  bullet  into  the  approach- 
ing masses.  The  sweetness  of  revenge  could 
not  pay  for  what  they  had  lost.  They  looked 
down  upon  the  farm-houses  of  men  they  knew; 
upon  their  own  farm-houses  rising  in  smoke; 
they  saw  the  Englishmen  like  a  pest  of  locusts 
settling  down  around  gardens  and  farm-houses 
still  nearer,  and  swallowing  them  up. 

Their  companions,  already  far  on  the  way  to 
safety,  waved  to  them  from  the  veldt  to  follow; 
an  excited  doctor  carrying  a  wounded  man 
warned  us  that  the  English  were  just  below, 
storming  the  hill.  "Our  artillery  is  aiming  at 

209 


The  Night  Before  the  Battle 

five  hundred  yards,"  he  shouted,  but  still  the 
remaining  burghers  stood  immovable,  leaning  on 
their  rifles,  silent,  homeless,  looking  down  without 
rage  or  show  of  feeling  at  the  great  waves  of  khaki 
sweeping  steadily  toward  them,  and  possessing 
their  land. 


210 


THE   JAPANESE-RUSSIAN  WAR 


BATTLES  I  DID  NOT  SEE 

WE  knew  it  was  a  battle  because  the  Japa- 
nese officers  told  us  it  was.  In  other  wars 
I  had  seen  other  battles,  many  sorts  of  battles, 
but  I  had  never  seen  a  battle  like  that  one.  Most 
battles  are  noisy,  hurried,  and  violent,  giving  rise 
to  an  unnatural  thirst  and  to  the  delusion  that, 
by  some  unhappy  coincidence,  every  man  on  the 
other  side  is  shooting  only  at  you.  This  delusion 
is  not  peculiar  to  myself.  Many  men  have  told 
me  that  in  the  confusion  of  battle  they  always  get 
this  exaggerated  idea  of  their  own  importance. 
Down  in  Cuba  I  heard  a  colonel  inform  a  group  of 
brother  officers  that  a  Spanish  field-piece  had 
marked  him  for  its  own,  and  for  an  hour  had 
been  pumping  shrapnel  at  him  and  at  no  one 
else.  The  interesting  part  of  the  story  was  that 
he  believed  it. 

But  the  battle  of  Anshantien  was  in  no  way 
disquieting.  It  was  a  noiseless,  odorless,  rubber- 
tired  battle.  So  far  as  we  were  concerned  it  con- 
sisted of  rings  of  shrapnel  smoke  floating  over 
a  mountain  pass  many  miles  distant.  So  many 

213 


Battles  I  Did  Not  See 

miles  distant  that  when,  with  a  glass,  you  could 
see  a  speck  of  fire  twinkle  in  the  sun  like  a  helio- 
graph, you  could  not  tell  whether  it  was  the 
flash  from  the  gun  or  the  flame  from  the  shell. 
Neither  could  you  tell  whether  the  cigarette  rings 
issued  from  the  lips  of  the  Japanese  guns  or 
from  those  of  the  Russians.  The  only  thing  about 
that  battle  of  which  you  were  certain  was  that  it 
was  a  perfectly  safe  battle  to  watch.  It  was  the 
first  one  I  ever  witnessed  that  did  not  require  you 
to  calmly  smoke  a  pipe  in  order  to  conceal  the 
fact  that  you  were  scared.  But  soothing  as  it 
was,  the  battle  lacked  what  is  called  the  human 
interest.  There  may  have  been  men  behind  the 
guns,  but  as  they  were  also  behind  Camel  Hill 
and  Saddle  Mountain,  eight  miles  away,  our  eyes, 
like  those  of  Mr.  Samuel  Weller,  "being  only 
eyes,"  were  not  able  to  discover  them. 

Our  teachers,  the  three  Japanese  officers  who 
were  detailed  to  tell  us  about  things  we  were  not 
allowed  to  see,  gazed  at  the  scene  of  carnage  with 
well-simulated  horror.  Their  expressions  of  coun- 
tenance showed  that  should  any  one  move  the 
battle  eight  miles  nearer,  they  were  prepared  to 
sell  their  lives  dearly.  When  they  found  that 
none  of  us  were  looking  at  them  or  their  battle, 
they  were  hurt.  The  reason  no  one  was  looking 

214 


Battles  I  Did  Not  See 

at  them  was  because  most  of  us  had  gone  to  sleep. 
The  rest,  with  a  bitter  experience  of  Japanese 
promises,  had  doubted  there  would  be  a  battle, 
and  had  prepared  themselves  with  newspapers. 
And  so,  while  eight  miles  away  the  preliminary 
battle  to  Liao-Yang  was  making  history,  we  were 
lying  on  the  grass  reading  two  months'  old  news 
of  the  St.  Louis  Convention. 

The  sight  greatly  disturbed  our  teachers. 

"You  complain,"  they  said,  "because  you  are 
not  allowed  to  see  anything,  and  now,  when  we 
show  you  a  battle,  you  will  not  look." 

Lewis,  of  the  Herald,  eagerly  seized  his  glasses 
and  followed  the  track  of  the  Siberian  railway  as  it 
disappeared  into  the  pass. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I  didn't  know  it  was  a 
battle,"  he  apologized  politely.  "I  thought  it  was 
a  locomotive  at  Anshantien  Station  blowing  off 
steam." 

And,  so,  teacher  gave  him  a  bad  mark  for  dis- 
respect. 

It  really  was  trying. 

In  order  to  see  this  battle  we  had  travelled  half 
around  the  world,  had  then  waited  four  wasted 
months  at  Tokio,  then  had  taken  a  sea  voyage  of 
ten  days,  then  for  twelve  days  had  ridden  through 
mud  and  dust  in  pursuit  of  the  army,  then  for 

215 


Battles  I  Did  Not  See 

twelve  more  days,  while  battles  raged  ten  miles 
away,  had  been  kept  prisoners  in  a  compound 
where  five  out  of  the  eighteen  correspondents  were 
sick  with  dysentery  or  fever,  and  finally  as  a  re- 
ward we  were  released  from  captivity  and  taken 
to  see  smoke  rings  eight  miles  away!  That  night 
a  round-robin,  which  was  signed  by  all,  was  sent 
to  General  Oku,  pointing  out  to  him  that  unless 
we  were  allowed  nearer  to  his  army  than  eight 
miles,  our  usefulness  to  the  people  who  paid  us 
our  salaries  was  at  an  end. 

While  waiting  for  an  answer  to  this  we  were 
led  out  to  see  another  battle.  Either  that  we  might 
not  miss  one  minute  of  it,  or  that  we  should  be 
too  sleepy  to  see  anything  of  it,  we  were  started  in 
black  darkness,  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
the  hour,  as  we  are  told,  when  one's  vitality  is  at 
its  lowest,  and  one  which  should  be  reserved  for 
the  exclusive  use  of  burglars  and  robbers  of  hen 
roosts.  Concerning  that  hour  I  learned  this,  that 
whatever  its  effects  may  be  upon  human  beings, 
it  finds  a  horse  at  his  most  strenuous  moment. 
At  that  hour  by  the  light  of  three  paper  lanterns 
we  tried  to  saddle  eighteen  horses,  donkeys,  and 
ponies,  and  the  sole  object  of  each  was  to  kick 
the  light  out  of  the  lantern  nearest  him.  We 
finally  rode  off  through  a  darkness  that  was  light- 

216 


Battles  I  Did  Not  See 

ened  only  by  a  gray,  dripping  fog,  and  in  a  silence 
broken  only  by  the  patter  of  rain  upon  the  corn  that 
towered  high  above  our  heads  and  for  many  miles 
hemmed  us  in.  After  an  hour,  Sataki,  the  teacher 
who  acted  as  our  guide,  lost  the  trail  and  Captain 
Lionel  James,  of  the  Times,  who  wrote  "On  the 
Heels  of  De  Wet,"  found  it  for  him.  Sataki,  so 
our  two  other  keepers  told  us,  is  an  authority  on 
international  law,  and  he  may  be  all  of  that  and 
know  all  there  is  to  know  of  three-mile  limits  and 
paper  blockades,  but  when  it  came  to  picking  up 
a  trail,  even  in  the  bright  sunlight  when  it  lay 
weltering  beneath  his  horse's  nostrils,  we  always 
found  that  any  correspondent  with  an  experience 
of  a  few  campaigns  was  of  more  general  use.  The 
trail  ended  at  a  muddy  hill,  a  bare  sugar-loaf  of  a 
hill,  as  high  as  the  main  tent  of  a  circus  and  as 
abruptly  sloping  away.  It  was  swept  by  a  damp, 
chilling  wind;  a  mean,  peevish  rain  washed  its 
sides,  and  they  were  so  steep  that  if  we  sat  upon 
them  we  tobogganed  slowly  downward,  ploughing 
up  the  mud  with  our  boot  heels.  Hungry,  sleepy, 
in  utter  darkness,  we  clung  to  this  slippery  mound 
in  its  ocean  of  whispering  millet  like  sailors 
wrecked  in  mid-sea  upon  a  rock,  and  waited 
for  the  day.  After  two  hours  a  gray  mist  came 
grudgingly,  trees  and  rocks  grew  out  of  it,  trenches 

217 


Battles  I  Did  Not  See 

appeared  at  our  feet,  and  what  had  before  looked 
like  a  lake  of  water  became  a  mud  village. 

Then,  like  shadows,  the  foreign  attaches,  whom 
we  fondly  hoped  might  turn  out  to  be  Russian 
Cossacks  coming  to  take  us  prisoners  and  carry 
us  off  to  breakfast,  rode  up  in  silence  and  were 
halted  at  the  base  of  the  hill.  It  seemed  now,  the 
audience  being  assembled,  the  orchestra  might  be- 
gin. But  no  hot-throated  cannon  broke  the  chill- 
ing, dripping,  silence,  no  upheaval  of  the  air  spoke 
of  Canet  guns,  no  whirling  shrapnel  screamed  and 
burst.  Instead,  the  fog  rolled  back  showing  us 
miles  of  waving  corn,  the  wet  rails  of  the  Sibe- 
rian Railroad  glistening  in  the  rain,  and,  masking 
the  horizon,  the  same  mountains  from  which  the 
day  before  the  smoke  rings  had  ascended.  They 
now  were  dark,  brooding,  their  tops  hooded  in 
clouds.  Somewhere  in  front  of  us  hidden  in  the 
Kiao  Hang,  hidden  in  the  tiny  villages,  crouching 
on  the  banks  of  streams,  concealed  in  trenches 
that  were  themselves  concealed,  Oku's  army,  the 
army  to  which  we  were  supposed  to  belong,  was 
buried  from  our  sight.  And  in  the  mountains  on 
our  right  lay  the  Fourth  Army,  and  twenty  miles 
still  farther  to  the  right,  Kuroki  was  closing  in 
upon  Liao-Yang.  All  of  this  we  guessed,  what 
we  were  told  was  very  different,  what  we  saw  was 

218 


Battles  I  Did  Not  See 

nothing.  In  all,  four  hundred  thousand  men  were 
not  farther  from  us  than  four  to  thirty  miles — and 
we  saw  nothing.  We  watched  as  the  commissariat 
wagons  carrying  food  to  these  men  passed  us  by, 
the  hospital  stores  passed  us  by,  the  transport 
carts  passed  us  by,  the  coolies  with  reserve  mounts, 
the  last  wounded  soldier,  straggler,  and  camp- 
follower  passed  us  by.  Like  a  big  tidal  wave 
Oku's  army  had  swept  forward  leaving  its  unwel- 
come guests,  the  attaches  and  correspondents, 
forty  lonely  foreigners  among  seventy  thousand 
Japanese,  stranded  upon  a  hill  miles  in  the  rear. 
Perhaps,  as  war,  it  was  necessary,  but  it  was  not 
magnificent. 

That  night  Major  Okabe,  our  head  teacher, 
gave  us  the  official  interpretation  of  what  had 
occurred.  The  Russians,  he  said,  had  retreated 
from  Liao-Yang  and  were  in  open  flight.  Unless 
General  Kuroki,  who,  he  said,  was  fifty  miles  north 
of  us,  could  cut  them  off  they  would  reach  Muk- 
den in  ten  days,  and  until  then  there  would  be 
no  more  fighting.  The  Japanese  troops,  he  said, 
were  in  Liao-Yang,  it  had  been  abandoned  with- 
out a  fight.  This  he  told  us  on  the  evening  of  the 
2yth  of  August. 

The  next  morning  Major  Okabe  delivered  the 
answer  of  General  Oku  to  our  round-robin.  He 

219 


Battles  I  Did  Not  See 

informed  us  that  we  had  been  as  near  to  the  fight- 
ing as  we  ever  would  be  allowed  to  go.  The  near- 
est we  had  been  to  any  fighting  was  four  miles. 
Our  experience  had  taught  us  that  when  the 
Japanese  promised  us  we  would  be  allowed  to  do 
something  we  wanted  to  do,  they  did  not  keep 
their  promise;  but  that  when  they  said  we  would 
not  be  allowed  to  do  something  we  wanted  to  do, 
they  spoke  the  truth.  Consequently,  when  Gen- 
eral Oku  declared  the  correspondents  would  be 
held  four  miles  in  the  rear,  we  believed  he  would 
keep  his  word.  And,  as  we  now  know,  he  did, 
the  only  men  who  saw  the  fighting  that  later 
ensued  being  those  who  disobeyed  his  orders 
and  escaped  from  their  keepers.  Those  who  had 
been  ordered  by  their  papers  to  strictly  obey  the 
regulations  of  the  Japanese,  and  the  military 
attaches,  were  kept  by  Oku  nearly  six  miles  in 
the  rear. 

On  the  receipt  of  Oku's  answer  to  the  corre- 
spondents, Mr.  John  Fox,  Jr.,  of  Scribner's  Mag- 
azine, Mr.  Milton  Prior,  of  the  London  Illustrated 
News,  Mr.  George  Lynch,  of  the  London  Morning 
Chronicle,  and  myself  left  the  army.  We  were 
very  sorry  to  go.  Apart  from  the  fact  that  we 
had  not  been  allowed  to  see  anything  of  the  mili- 
tary operations,  we  were  enjoying  ourselves  im- 

220 


(A 

1 

1=1 

o 
a, 

C/3 


rt 
£ 


Battles  I  Did  Not  See 

mensely.  Personally,  I  never  went  on  a  campaign 
in  a  more  delightful  country  nor  with  better  com- 
panions than  the  men  acting  as  correspondents 
with  the  Second  Army.  For  the  sake  of  such  good 
company,  and  to  see  more  of  Manchuria,  I  per- 
sonally wanted  to  keep  on.  But  I  was  not  being 
paid  to  go  camping  with  a  set  of  good  fellows. 
Already  the  Japanese  had  wasted  six  months  of 
my  time  and  six  months  of  Mr.  Collier's  money, 
Mr.  Fox  had  been  bottled  up  for  a  period  of  equal 
length,  while  Mr.  Prior  and  Mr.  Lynch  had  been 
prisoners  in  Tokio  for  even  four  months  longer. 
And  now  that  Okabe  assured  us  that  Liao-Yang 
was  already  taken,  and  Oku  told  us  if  there  were 
any  fighting  we  would  not  be  allowed  to  witness 
it,  it  seemed  a  good  time  to  quit. 

Other  correspondents  would  have  quit  then,  as 
most  of  them  did  ten  days  later,  but  that  their 
work  and  ours  in  a  slight  degree  differed.  As  we 
were  not  working  for  daily  papers,  we  used  the 
cable  but  seldom,  while  they  used  it  every  day. 
Each  evening  Okabe  brought  them  the  official 
account  of  battles  and  of  the  movements  of  the 
troops,  which  news  of  events  which  they  had 
not  witnessed  they  sent  to  their  separate  papers. 
But  for  our  purposes  it  was  necessary  we  should 
see  things  for  ourselves.  For,  contrary  to  the 

221 


Battles  I  Did  Not  See 

popular  accusation,  no  matter  how  flattering  it 
may  be,  we  could  not  describe  events  at  which 
we  were  not  present. 

But  what  mainly  moved  us  to  decide,  was  the 
statements  of  Okabe,  the  officer  especially  detailed 
by  the  War  Office  to  aid  and  instruct  us,  to  act 
as  our  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend,  our  only 
official  source  of  information,  who  told  us  that 
Liao-Yang  was  occupied  by  the  Japanese  and  that 
the  Russians  were  in  retreat.  He  even  begged 
me  personally  to  come  with  him  into  Liao-Yang 
on  the  ZQth  and  see  how  it  was  progressing  under 
the  control  of  the  Japanese  authorities. 

Okabe' s  news  meant  that  the  great  battle  Kuro- 
patkin  had  promised  at  Liao-Yang,  and  which  we 
had  come  to  see,  would  never  take  place. 

Why  Okabe  lied  I  do  not  know.  Whether  Oku 
had  lied  to  him,  or  whether  it  was  Baron-General 
Kodama  or  Major-General  Fukushima  who  had 
instructed  him  to  so  grossly  misinform  us,  it  is 
impossible  to  say.  While  in  Tokio  no  one  ever 
more  frequently,  nor  more  unblushingly,  made 
statements  that  they  knew  were  untrue  than 
did  Kodama  and  Fukushima,  but  none  of  their 
deceptions  had  ever  harmed  us  so  greatly  as  did 
the  lie  they  put  into  the  mouth  of  Okabe.  Not 
only  had  the  Japanese  not  occupied  Liao-Yang 

222 


Battles  I  Did  Not  See 

on  the  evening  of  the  zyth  of  August,  but  later, 
as  everybody  knows,  they  had  to  fight  six  days  to 
get  into  it.  And  Kuroki,  so  far  from  being  fifty 
miles  north  toward  Mukden  as  Okabe  said  he 
was,  was  twenty  miles  to  the  east  on  our  right 
preparing  for  the  closing  in  movement  which  was 
just  about  to  begin.  Three  days  after  we  had 
left  the  army,  the  greatest  battle  since  Sedan 
was  waged  for  six  days. 

So  our  half  year  of  time  and  money,  of  dreary 
waiting,  of  daily  humiliations  at  the  hands  of 
officers  with  minds  diseased  by  suspicion,  all  of 
which  would  have  been  made  up  to  us  by  the 
sight  of  this  one  great  spectacle,  was  to  the  end 
absolutely  lost  to  us.  Perhaps  we  made  a  mistake 
in  judgment.  As  the  cards  fell,  we  certainly  did. 
But  after  the  event  it  is  easy  to  be  wise.  For  the 
last  fifteen  years,  had  I  known  as  much  the  night 
before  the  Grand  Prix  was  run  as  I  did  the  next 
afternoon,  I  would  be  passing  rich. 

The  only  proposition  before  us  was  this :  There 
was  small  chance  of  any  immediate  fighting.  If 
there  were  fighting  we  could  not  see  it.  Con- 
fronted with  the  same  conditions  again,  I  would 
decide  in  exactly  the  same  manner.  Our  mis- 
fortune lay  in  the  fact  that  our  experience  with 
other  armies  had  led  us  to  believe  that  officers  and 

223 


Battles  I  Did  Not  See 

gentlemen  speak  the  truth,  that  men  with  rides 
of  nobility,  and  with  the  higher  tides  of  general 
and  major-general,  do  not  lie.  In  that  we  were 
mistaken. 

The  parting  from  the  other  correspondents  was 
a  brutal  attack  upon  the  feelings  which,  had  we 
known  they  were  to  follow  us  two  weeks  later  to 
Tokio,  would  have  been  spared  us.  It  is  worth 
recording  why,  after  waiting  many  months  to  get 
to  the  front,  they  in  their  turn  so  soon  left  it. 
After  each  of  the  big  battles  before  Liao-Yang 
they  handed  the  despatches  they  had  written  for 
their  papers  to  Major  Okabe.  Each  day  he 
told  them  these  despatches  had  been  censored 
and  forwarded.  After  three  days  he  brought  back 
all  the  despatches  and  calmly  informed  the  corre- 
spondents that  not  one  of  their  cables  had  been 
sent.  It  was  the  final  affront  of  Japanese  duplicity. 
In  recording  the  greatest  battle  of  modern  times 
three  days  had  been  lost,  and  by  a  lie.  The 
object  of  their  coming  to  the  Far  East  had  been 
frustrated.  It  was  fatuous  to  longer  expect  from 
Kodama  and  his  pupils  fair  play  or  honest  treat- 
ment, and  in  the  interest  of  their  employers  and 
to  save  their  own  self-respect,  the  representatives 
of  all  the  most  important  papers  in  the  world,  the 
Times,  of  London,  the  New  York  Herald,  the 

224 


Battles  I  Did  Not  See 

Paris  Figaro,  the  London  Daily  Telegraph,  Daily 
Mail,  and  Morning  Post,  quit  the  Japanese  army. 

Meanwhile,  unconscious  of  what  we  had  missed, 
the  four  of  us  were  congratulating  ourselves  upon 
our  escape,  and  had  started  for  New-Chwang. 
Our  first  halt  was  at  Hai-Cheng,  in  the  same  com- 
pound in  which  for  many  days  with  the  others 
we  had  been  imprisoned.  But  our  halt  was  a 
brief  one.  We  found  the  compound  glaring  in 
the  sun,  empty,  silent,  filled  only  with  memories 
of  the  men  who,  with  their  laughter,  their  stories, 
and  their  songs  had  made  it  live. 

But  now  all  were  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces 
and  the  familiar  voices,  and  we  threw  our  things 
back  on  the  carts  and  hurried  away.  The  trails 
between  Hai-Cheng  and  the  sea  made  the  worst 
going  we  had  encountered  in  Manchuria.  You 
soon  are  convinced  that  the  time  has  not  been  long 
since  this  tract  of  land  lay  entirely  under  the  waters 
of  the  Gulf  of  Liaotung.  You  soon  scent  the 
salt  air,  and  as  you  flounder  in  the  alluvial  de- 
posits of  ages,  you  expect  to  find  the  salt-water 
at  the  very  roots  of  the  millet.  Water  lies  in  every 
furrow  of  the  miles  of  cornfields,  water  flows  in 
streams  in  the  roads,  water  spreads  in  lakes 
over  the  compounds,  it  oozes  from  beneath  the 
very  walls  of  the  go-downs.  You  would  not  be 

225 


Battles  I  Did  Not  See 

surprised  at  any  moment  to  see  the  tide  returning 
to  envelop  you.  In  this  liquid  mud  a  cart  can 
make  a  trail  by  the  simple  process  of  continu- 
ing forward.  The  havoc  is  created  in  the  millet 
and  the  ditches  its  iron-studded  wheels  dig  in  the 
mud  leave  to  the  eyes  of  the  next  comer  as  per- 
fectly good  a  trail  as  the  one  that  has  been  in  use 
for  many  centuries.  Consequently  the  opportu- 
nities for  choosing  the  wrong  trail  are  excellent, 
and  we  embraced  every  opportunity.  But  friendly 
Chinamen,  and  certainly  they  are  a  friendly,  hu- 
man people,  again  and  again  cheerfully  went  far 
out  of  their  way  to  guide  us  back  to  ours,  and 
so,  after  two  days,  we  found  ourselves  five  miles 
from  New-Chwang. 

Here  we  agreed  to  separate.  We  had  heard 
a  marvellous  tale  that  at  New-Chwang  there  was 
ice,  champagne,  and  a  hotel  with  enamelled  bath- 
tubs. We  had  unceasingly  discussed  the  probabil- 
ity of  this  being  true,  and  what  we  would  do  with 
these  luxuries  if  we  got  them,  and  when  we  came 
so  near  to  where  they  were  supposed  to  be,  it 
was  agreed  that  one  of  us  would  ride  on  ahead 
and  command  them,  while  the  others  followed  with 
the  carts.  The  lucky  number  fell  to  John  Fox, 
and  he  left  us  at  a  gallop.  He  was  to  engage 
rooms  for  the  four,  and  to  arrange  for  the  care  of 

226 


Battles  I  Did  Not  See 

seven  Japanese  interpreters  and  servants,  nine 
Chinese  coolies,  and  nineteen  horses  and  mules. 
We  expected  that  by  eight  o'clock  we  would  be 
eating  the  best  dinner  John  Fox  could  order. 
We  were  mistaken.  Not  that  John  Fox  had  not 
ordered  the  dinner,  but  no  one  ate  it  but  John 
Fox.  The  very  minute  he  left  us  Prior's  cart 
turned  turtle  in  the  mud,  and  the  largest  of  his 
four  mules  lay  down  in  it  and  knocked  off  work. 
The  mule  was  hot  and  very  tired,  and  the  mud 
was  soft,  cool,  and  wet,  so  he  burrowed  under  its 
protecting  surface  until  all  we  could  see  of  him 
was  his  ears.  The  coolies  shrieked  at  him,  Prior 
issued  ultimatums  at  him,  the  Japanese  servants 
stood  on  dry  land  fifteen  feet  away  and  talked 
about  him,  but  he  only  snuggled  deeper  into  his 
mud  bath.  When  there  is  no  more  of  a  mule  to 
hit  than  his  ears,  he  has  you  at  a  great  disadvan- 
tage, and  when  the  coolies  waded  in  and  tugged 
at  his  head,  we  found  that  the  harder  they  tugged, 
the  deeper  they  sank.  When  they  were  so  far 
out  of  sight  that  we  were  in  danger  of  losing  them 
too,  we  ordered  them  to  give  up  the  struggle  and 
unload  the  cart.  Before  we  got  it  out  of  dry- 
dock,  reloaded,  and  again  in  line  with  the  other 
carts  it  was  nine  o'clock,  and  dark. 

In   the   meantime,   Lynch,   his   sense   of  duty 
227 


Battles  I  Did  Not  See 

weakened  by  visions  of  enamelled  bathtubs  filled 
with  champagne  and  floating  lumps  of  ice,  had 
secretly  abandoned  us,  stealing  away  in  the  night 
and  leaving  us  to  follow.  This,  not  ten  minutes 
after  we  had  started,  Mr.  Prior  decided  that  he 
would  not  do,  so  he  camped  out  with  the  carts  in 
a  village,  while,  dinnerless,  supperless,  and  thirsty, 
I  rode  on  alone.  I  reached  New-Chwang  at  mid- 
night, and  after  being  refused  admittance  by  the 
Japanese  soldiers,  was  finally  rescued  by  the 
Number  One  man  from  the  Manchuria  Hotel, 
who  had  been  sent  out  by  Fox  with  two  sikhs  and 
a  lantern  to  find  me.  For  some  minutes  I  dared 
not  ask  him  the  fateful  questions.  It  was  better 
still  to  hope  than  to  put  one's  fortunes  to  the  test. 
But  I  finally  summoned  my  courage. 

"Ice,  have  got?"    I  begged. 

"Have  got,"  he  answered. 

There  was  a  long,  grateful  pause,  and  then  in 
a  voice  that  trembled,  I  again  asked,  "Cham- 
pagne, have  got?" 

Number  One  man  nodded. 

"Have  got,"  he  said. 

I  totally  forgot  until  the  next  morning  to  ask 
about  the  enamelled  bathtubs. 

When  I  arrived  John  Fox  had  gone  to  bed,  and 
as  it  was  six  weeks  since  any  of  us  had  seen  a  real 

228 


Battles  I  Did  Not  See 

bed,  I  did  not  wake  him.  Hence,  he  did  not 
know  I  was  in  the  hotel,  and  throughout  the 
troubles  that  followed  I  slept  soundly. 

Meanwhile,  Lynch,  as  a  punishment  for  run- 
ning away  from  us,  lost  his  own  way,  and,  after 
stumbling  into  an  old  sow  and  her  litter  of  pigs, 
which  on  a  dark  night  is  enough  to  startle  any  one, 
stumbled  into  a  Japanese  outpost,  was  hailed  as 
a  Russian  spy,  and  made  prisoner.  This  had  one 
advantage,  as  he  now  was  able  to  find  New- 
Chwang,  to  which  place  he  was  marched,  closely 
guarded,  arriving  there  at  half-past  two  in  the 
morning.  Since  he  ran  away  from  us  he  had 
been  wandering  about  on  foot  for  ten  hours.  He 
sent  a  note  to  Mr.  Little,  the  British  Consul,  and 
to  Bush  Brothers,  the  kings  of  New-Chwang,  and, 
still  tormented  by  visions  of  ice  and  champagne, 
demanded  that  his  captors  take  him  to  the  Man- 
churia Hotel.  There  he  swore  they  would  find  a 
pass  from  Fukushima  allowing  him  to  enter  New- 
Chwang,  three  friends  who  could  identify  him, 
four  carts,  seven  servants,  nine  coolies,  and  nine- 
teen animals.  The  commandant  took  him  to 
the  Manchuria  Hotel,  where  instead  of  this  wealth 
of  corroborative  detail  they  found  John  Fox  in 
bed.  As  Prior,  the  only  one  of  us  not  in  New- 
Chwang,  had  the  pass  from  Fukushima,  permitting 

229 


Battles  I  Did  Not  See 

us  to  enter  it,  there  was  no  one  to  prove  what 
either  Lynch  or  Fox  said,  and  the  officer  flew  into 
a  passion  and  told  Fox  he  would  send  both  of 
them  out  of  town  on  the  first  train.  Mr.  Fox 
was  annoyed  at  being  pulled  from  his  bed  at  three 
in  the  morning  to  be  told  he  was  a  Russian  spy, 
so  he  said  that  there  was  not  a  train  fast  enough 
to  get  him  out  of  New-Chwang  as  quickly  as  he 
wanted  to  go,  or,  for  that  matter,  out  of  Japan 
and  away  from  the  Japanese  people.  At  this  the 
officer,  being  a  Yale  graduate,  and  speaking  very 
pure  English,  told  Mr.  Fox  to  "shut  up/'  and  Mr. 
Fox  being  a  Harvard  graduate,  with  an  equally 
perfect  command  of  English,  pure  and  unde- 
filed,  shook  his  fist  in  the  face  of  the  Japanese 
officer  and  told  him  to  "  shut  up  yourself."  Lynch, 
seeing  the  witness  he  had  summoned  for  the  de- 
fence about  to  plunge  into  conflict  with  his  cap- 
tor, leaped  unhappily  from  foot  to  foot,  and  was 
heard  diplomatically  suggesting  that  all  hands 
should  adjourn  for  ice  and  champagne. 

"If  I  were  a  spy,"  demanded  Fox,  "do  you 
suppose  I  would  have  ridden  into  your  town  on  a 
white  horse  and  registered  at  your  head-quarters 
and  then  ordered  four  rooms  at  the  principal  hotel 
and  accommodations  for  seven  servants,  nine  coo- 
lies, and  nineteen  animals  ?  Is  that  the  way  a  Rus- 

230 


Battles  I  Did  Not  See 

sian  spy  works  ?    Does  he  go  around  with  a  brass 
band  ?" 

The  officer,  unable  to  answer  in  kind  this  ex- 
cellent reasoning,  took  a  mean  advantage  of  his 
position  by  placing  both  John  and  Lynch  under 
arrest,  and  at  the  head  of  each  bed  a  Japanese 
policeman  to  guard  their  slumbers.  The  next 
morning  Prior  arrived  with  the  pass,  and  from 
the  decks  of  the  first  out-bound  English  steamer 
Fox  hurled  through  the  captain's  brass  speaking- 
trumpet  our  farewells  to  the  Japanese,  as  repre- 
sented by  the  gun-boats  in  the  harbor.  Their 
officers,  probably  thinking  his  remarks  referred  to 
floating  mines,  ran  eagerly  to  the  side.  But  our 
ship's  captain  tumbled  from  the  bridge,  rescued  his 
trumpet,  and  begged  Fox,  until  we  were  under  the 
guns  of  a  British  man-of-war,  to  issue  no  more  fare- 
well addresses.  The  next  evening  we  passed  into 
the  Gulf  of  Pe-chi-li,  and  saw  above  Port  Arthur 
the  great  guns  flashing  in  the  night,  and  the  next 
day  we  anchored  in  the  snug  harbor  of  Chefoo. 

I  went  at  once  to  the  cable  station  to  cable 
Collier's  I  was  returning,  and  asked  the  China- 
man in  charge  if  my  name  was  on  his  list  of 
those  correspondents  who  could  send  copy  collect. 
He  said  it  was;  and  as  I  started  to  write,  he  added 
with  grave  politeness,  "I  congratulate  you.7* 

231 


Battles  I  Did  Not  See 

For  a  moment  I  did  not  lift  my  eyes.  I  felt  a 
chill  creeping  down  my  spine.  I  knew  what  sort 
of  a  blow  was  coming,  and  I  was  afraid  of  it. 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

The  Chinaman  bowed  and  smiled. 

"Because  you  are  the  first,"  he  said.  "You  are 
the  only  correspondent  to  arrive  who  has  seen  the 
battle  of  Liao-Yang." 

The  chill  turned  to  a  sort  of  nausea.  I  knew 
then  what  disaster  had  fallen,  but  I  cheated  my- 
self by  pretending  the  man  was  misinformed. 
"There  was  no  battle,"  I  protested.  "The  Jap- 
anese told  me  themselves  they  had  entered  Liao- 
Yang  without  firing  a  shot."  The  cable  opera- 
tor was  a  gentleman.  He  saw  my  distress,  saw 
what  it  meant  and  delivered  the  blow  with  the  dis- 
taste of  a  physician  who  must  tell  a  patient  he 
cannot  recover.  Gently,  reluctantly,  with  real 
sympathy  he  said,  "They  have  been  fighting  for 
six  days." 

I  went  over  to  a  bench,  and  sat  down;  and 
when  Lynch  and  Fox  came  in  and  took  one 
look  at  me,  they  guessed  what  had  happened. 
When  the  Chinaman  told  them  of  what  we  had 
been  cheated,  they,  in  their  turn,  came  to  the 
bench,  and  collapsed.  No  one  said  anything. 
No  one  even  swore.  Six  months  we  had  waited 

232 


Battles  I  Did  Not  See 

only  to  miss  by  three   days  the  greatest  battle 
since  Gettysburg  and  Sedan.     And  by  a  lie. 

For  six  months  we  had  tasted  all  the  indignities 
of  the  suspected  spy,  we  had  been  prisoners  of 
war,  we  had  been  ticket-of-leave  men,  and  it  is 
not  difficult  to  imagine  our  glad  surprise  that 
same  day  when  we  saw  in  the  harbor  the  white 
hull  of  the  cruiser  Cincinnati  with  our  flag  lifting 
at  her  stern.  We  did  not  know  a  soul  on  board, 
but  that  did  not  halt  us.  As  refugees,  as  fleeing 
political  prisoners,  as  American  slaves  escaping 
from  their  Japanese  jailers,  we  climbed  over  the 
side  and  demanded  protection  and  dinner.  We 
got  both.  Perhaps  it  was  not  good  to  rest  on 
that  bit  of  drift-wood,  that  atom  of  our  country 
that  had  floated  far  from  the  main-land  and  now 
formed  an  island  of  American  territory  in  the 
harbor  of  Chefoo.  Perhaps  we  were  not  content 
to  sit  at  the  mahogany  table  in  the  glistening  white 
and  brass  bound  wardroom  surrounded  by  those 
eager,  sunburned  faces,  to  hear  sea  slang  and 
home  slang  in  the  accents  of  Maine,  Virginia, 
and  New  York  City.  We  forgot  our  dark- 
skinned  keepers  with  the  slanting,  suspicious,  un- 
friendly eyes,  with  tongues  that  spoke  the  one 
thing  and  meant  the  other.  All  the  memories  of 
those  six  months  of  deceit,  of  broken  pledges,  of 

233 


Battles  I  Did  Not  See 

unnecessary  humiliations,  of  petty  unpoliteness 
from  a  half-educated,  half-bred,  conceited,  and 
arrogant  people  fell  from  us  like  a  heavy  knap- 
sack. We  were  again  at  home.  Again  with  our 
own  people.  Out  of  the  happy  confusion  of  that 
great  occasion  I  recall  two  toasts.  One  was  offered 
by  John  Fox.  "Japan  for  the  Japanese,  and  the 
Japanese  for  Japan."  Even  the  Japanese  ward- 
room boy  did  not  catch  its  significance.  The 
other  was  a  paraphrase  of  a  couplet  in  reference 
to  our  brown  brothers  of  the  Philippines  first 
spoken  in  Manila.  "To  the  Japanese:  'They 
may  be  brothers  to  Commodore  Perry,  but  they 
ain't  no  brothers  of  mine.'" 

It  was  a  joyous  night.  Lieutenant  Gilmore, 
who  had  been  an  historic  prisoner  in  the  Philip- 
pines, so  far  sympathized  with  our  escape  from 
the  Yellow  Peril  as  to  intercede  with  the  captain 
to  extend  the  rules  of  the  ship.  And  those  rules 
that  were  incapable  of  extending  broke.  Indeed,  I 
believe  we  broke  everything  but  the  eight-inch 
gun.  And  finally  we  were  conducted  to  our 
steamer  in  a  launch  crowded  with  slim-waisted, 
broad-chested  youths  in  white  mess  jackets, 
clasping  each  other's  shoulders  and  singing,  "Way 
down  in  my  heart,  I  have  a  feeling  for  you,  a 
sort  of  feeling  for  you";  while  the  officer  of  the 

234 


Battles  I  Did  Not  See 

deck   turned   his   back,    and   discreetly   fixed   his 
night  glass  upon  a  suspicious  star. 

It  was  an  American  cruiser  that  rescued  this 
war  correspondent  from  the  bondage  of  Japan. 
It  will  require  all  the  battle-ships  in  the  Japanese 
navy  to  force  him  back  to  it. 


235 


A  WAR   CORRESPONDENT'S 
KIT 


A   WAR    CORRESPONDENT'S    KIT 

I  AM  going  to  try  to  describe  some  kits  and 
outfits  I  have  seen  used  in  different  parts  of 
the  world  by  travellers  and  explorers,  and  in 
different  campaigns  by  army  officers  and  war 
correspondents.  Among  the  articles,  the  reader 
may  learn  of  some  new  thing  which,  when  next 
he  goes  hunting,  fishing,  or  exploring,  he  can 
adapt  to  his  own  uses.  That  is  my  hope,  but  I  am 
sceptical.  I  have  seldom  met  the  man  who  would 
allow  any  one  else  to  select  his  kit,  or  who  would 
admit  that  any  other  kit  was  better  than  the  one 
he  himself  had  packed.  It  is  a  very  delicate  ques- 
tion. The  same  article  that  one  declares  is  the 
most  essential  to  his  comfort,  is  the  very  first  thing 
that  another  will  throw  into  the  trail.  A  man's 
outfit  is  a  matter  which  seems  to  touch  his  private 
honor.  I  have  heard  veterans  sitting  around  a 
camp-fire  proclaim  the  superiority  of  their  kits 
with  a  jealousy,  loyalty,  and  enthusiasm  they 
would  not  exhibit  for  the  flesh  of  their  flesh  and 
the  bone  of  their  bone.  On  a  campaign,  you 
may  attack  a  man's  courage,  the  flag  he  serves,  the 

239 


A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

newspaper  for  which  he  works,  his  intelligence, 
or  his  camp  manners,  and  he  will  ignore  you;  but 
if  you  criticise  his  patent  water-bottle  he  will  fall 
upon  you  with  both  fists.  So,  in  recommending 
any  article  for  an  outfit,  one  needs  to  be  careful. 
An  outfit  lends  itself  to  dispute,  because  the 
selection  of  its  component  parts  is  not  an  exact 
science.  It  should  be,  but  it  is  not.  A  doctor 
on  his  daily  rounds  can  carry  in  a  compact  little 
satchel  almost  everything  he  is  liable  to  need;  a 
carpenter  can  stow  away  in  one  box  all  the  tools 
of  his  trade.  But  an  outfit  is  not  selected  on  any 
recognized  principles.  It  seems  to  be  a  question 
entirely  of  temperament.  As  the  man  said  when 
his  friends  asked  him  how  he  made  his  famous 
cocktail,  "It  depends  on  my  mood."  The  truth 
is  that  each  man  in  selecting  his  outfit  generally 
follows  the  lines  of  least  resistance.  With  one, 
the  pleasure  he  derives  from  his  morning  bath 
outweighs  the  fact  that  for  the  rest  of  the  day  he 
must  carry  a  rubber  bathtub.  Another  man  is 
hearty,  tough,  and  inured  to  an  out-of-door  life. 
He  can  sleep  on  a  pile  of  coal  or  standing  on  his 
head,  and  he  naturally  scorns  to  carry  a  bed. 
But  another  man,  should  he  sleep  all  night  on  the 
ground,  the  next  day  would  be  of  no  use  to  him- 
self, his  regiment,  or  his  newspaper.  So  he  car- 

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A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

ries  a  folding  cot  and  the  more  fortunate  one  of 
tougher  fibre  laughs  at  him.  Another  man  says 
that  the  only  way  to  campaign  is  to  travel  "light," 
and  sets  forth  with  rain-coat  and  field-glass.  He 
honestly  thinks  that  he  travels  light  because  his 
intelligence  tells  him  it  is  the  better  way;  but,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  does  so  because  he  is  lazy. 
Throughout  the  entire  campaign  he  borrows  from 
his  friends,  and  with  that  camaraderie  and  unself- 
ishness that  never  comes  to  the  surface  so  strongly 
as  when  men  are  thrown  together  in  camp,  they 
lend  him  whatever  he  needs.  When  the  war  is 
over,  he  is  the  man  who  goes  about  saying:  "Some 
of  those  fellows  carried  enough  stuff"  to  fill  a  mov- 
ing van.  Now,  look  what  I  did.  I  made  the 
entire  campaign  on  a  tooth-brush." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  have  a  sneaking  admira- 
tion for  the  man  who  dares  to  borrow.  His  really 
is  the  part  of  wisdom.  But  at  times  he  may  lose 
himself  in  places  where  he  can  neither  a  borrower 
nor  a  lender  be,  and  there  are  men  so  tenderly  con- 
stituted that  they  cannot  keep  another  man  hun- 
gry while  they  use  his  coffee-pot.  So  it  is  well  to 
take  a  few  things  with  you — if  only  to  lend  them 
to  the  men  who  travel  "light." 

On  hunting  and  campaigning  trips  the  climate, 
the  means  of  transport,  and  the  chance  along  the 

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A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

road  of  obtaining  food  and  fodder  vary  so  greatly 
that  it  is  not  possible  to  map  out  an  outfit  which 
would  serve  equally  well  for  each  of  them.  What 
on  one  journey  was  your  most  precious  possession 
on  the  next  is  a  useless  nuisance.  On  two  trips  I 
have  packed  a  tent  weighing,  with  the  stakes, 
fifty  pounds,  which,  as  we  slept  in  huts,  I  never 
once  had  occasion  to  open;  while  on  other  trips 
in  countries  that  promised  to  be  more  or  less 
settled,  I  had  to  always  live  under  canvas,  and 
sometimes  broke  camp  twice  a  day. 

In  one  war,  in  which  I  worked  for  an  English 
paper,  we  travelled  like  major-generals.  When 
that  war  started  few  thought  it  would  last  over 
six  weeks,  and  many  of  the  officers  regarded  it  in 
the  light  of  a  picnic.  In  consequence,  they  mob- 
ilized as  they  never  would  have  done  had  they 
foreseen  what  was  to  come,  and  the  mess  contrac- 
tor grew  rich  furnishing,  not  only  champagne, 
which  in  campaigns  in  fever  countries  has  saved 
the  life  of  many  a  good  man,  but  cases  of 
even  port  and  burgundy,  which  never  greatly 
helped  any  one.  Later  these  mess  supplies  were 
turned  over  to  the  field-hospitals,  but  at  the  start 
every  one  travelled  with  more  than  he  needed 
and  more  than  the  regulations  allowed,  and  each 
correspondent  was  advised  that  if  he  represented 

242 


A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

a  first-class  paper  and  wished  to  "save  his  face'* 
he  had  better  travel  in  state.  Those  who  did  not, 
found  the  staff  and  censor  less  easy  of  access,  and 
the  means  of  obtaining  information  more  diffi- 
cult. But  it  was  a  nuisance.  If,  when  a  man 
halted  at  your  tent,  you  could  not  stand  him  whis- 
key and  sparklet  soda,  Egyptian  cigarettes,  com- 
pressed soup,  canned  meats,  and  marmalade, 
your  paper  was  suspected  of  trying  to  do  it  "on 
the  cheap,"  and  not  only  of  being  mean,  but,  as 
this  was  a  popular  war,  unpatriotic.  When  the 
army  stripped  down  to  work  all  this  was  discon- 
tinued, but  at  the  start  I  believe  there  were  carried 
with  that  column  as  many  tins  of  tan-leather 
dressing  as  there  were  rifles.  On  that  march  my 
own  outfit  was  as  unwieldy  as  a  gypsy's  caravan. 
It  consisted  of  an  enormous  cart,  two  oxen,  three 
Basuto  ponies,  one  Australian  horse,  three  ser- 
vants, and  four  hundred  pounds  of  supplies  and 
baggage.  When  it  moved  across  the  plain  it  looked 

oo    o  f 

as  large  as  a  Fall  River  boat.  Later,  when  I 
joined  the  opposing  army,  and  was  not  expected 
to  maintain  the  dignity  of  a  great  London  daily, 
I  carried  all  my  belongings  strapped  to  my  back, 
or  to  the  back  of  my  one  pony,  and  I  was  quite  as 
comfortable,  clean,  and  content  as  I  had  been  with 
the  private  car  and  the  circus  tent. 

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A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

Throughout  the  Greek  war,  as  there  were  no 
horses  to  be  had  for  love  or  money,  we  walked, 
and  I  learned  then  that  when  one  has  to  carry  his 
own  kit  the  number  of  things  he  can  do  without 
is  extraordinary.  While  I  marched  with  the 
army,  offering  my  kingdom  for  a  horse,  I  carried 
my  outfit  in  saddle-bags  thrown  over  my  shoulder. 
And  I  think  it  must  have  been  a  good  outfit,  for  I 
never  bought  anything  to  add  to  it  or  threw  any- 
thing away.  I  submit  that  as  a  fair  test  of  a  kit. 

Further  on,  should  any  reader  care  to  know 
how  for  several  months  one  may  keep  going  with 
an  outfit  he  can  pack  in  two  saddle-bags,  I  will 
give  a  list  of  the  articles  which  in  three  campaigns 
I  carried  in  mine. 

Personally,  I  am  for  travelling  "light,"  but  at 
the  very  start  one  is  confronted  with  the  fact  that 
what  one  man  calls  light  to  another  savors  of  lux- 
ury. I  call  fifty  pounds  light;  in  Japan  we  each 
were  allowed  the  officer's  allowance  of  sixty-six 
pounds.  Lord  Wolseley,  in  his  "  Pocketbook," 
cuts  down  the  officer's  kit  to  forty  pounds,  while 
"Nessmut,"  of  the  Forest  and  Stream,  claims  that 
for  a  hunting  trip,  all  one  wants  does  not  weigh 
over  twenty-six  pounds.  It  is  very  largely  a  ques- 
tion of  compromise.  You  cannot  eat  your  cake 
and  have  it.  You  cannot,  under  a  tropical  sun, 

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A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

throw  away  your  blanket  and  when  the  night  dew 
falls  wrap  it  around  you.  And  if,  after  a  day  of 
hard  climbing  or  riding,  you  want  to  drop  into  a 
folding  chair,  to  make  room  for  it  in  your  carry-all 
you  must  give  up  many  other  lesser  things. 

By  travelling  light  I  do  not  mean  any  lighter 
than  the  necessity  demands.  If  there  is  trans- 
port at  hand,  a  man  is  foolish  not  to  avail  himself 
of  it.  He  is  always  foolish  if  he  does  not  make 
things  as  easy  for  himself  as  possible.  The  ten- 
derfoot will  not  agree  with  this.  With  him  there 
is  no  idea  so  fixed,  and  no  idea  so  absurd,  as  that 
to  be  comfortable  is  to  be  effeminate.  He  be- 
lieves that  "roughing  it"  is  synonymous  with 
hardship,  and  in  season  and  out  of  season  he  plays 
the  Spartan.  Any  man  who  suffers  discomforts 
he  can  avoid  because  he  fears  his  comrades  will 
think  he  cannot  suffer  hardships  is  an  idiot.  You 
often  hear  it  said  of  a  man  that  "he  can  rough  it 
with  the  best  of  them."  Any  one  can  do  that. 
The  man  I  want  for  a  "bunkie"  is  the  one  who 
can  be  comfortable  while  the  best  of  them  are 
roughing  it.  The  old  soldier  knows  that  it  is 
his  duty  to  keep  himself  fit,  so  that  he  can  perform 
his  work,  whether  his  work  is  scouting  for  forage 
or  scouting  for  men,  but  you  will  often  hear  the 
volunteer  captain  say:  "Now,  boys,  don't  for- 

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A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

get  we're  roughing  it;  and  don't  expect  to  be  com- 
fortable." As  a  rule,  the  only  reason  his  men 
are  uncomfortable  is  because  he  does  not  know 
how  to  make  them  otherwise;  or  because  he 
thinks,  on  a  campaign,  to  endure  unnecessary 
hardship  is  the  mark  of  a  soldier. 

In  the  Cuban  campaign  the  day  the  American 
forces  landed  at  Siboney  a  major-general  of  vol- 
unteers took  up  his  head-quarters  in  the  house 
from  which  the  Spanish  commandant  had  just 
fled,  and  on  the  veranda  of  which  Caspar  Whitney 
and  myself  had  found  two  hammocks  and  made 
ourselves  at  home.  The  Spaniard  who  had  been 
left  to  guard  the  house  courteously  offered  the 
major-general  his  choice  of  three  bed-rooms.  They 
all  were  on  the  first  floor  and  opened  upon  the 
veranda,  and  to  the  general's  staff  a  tent  could 
have  been  no  easier  of  access.  Obviously,  it 
was  the  duty  of  the  general  to  keep  himself  in 
good  physical  condition,  to  obtain  as  much  sleep 
as  possible,  and  to  rest  his  great  brain  and  his 
limbs  cramped  with  ten  days  on  shipboard. 
But  in  a  tone  of  stern  reproof  he  said,  "No;  I 
am  campaigning  now,  and  I  have  given  up  all 
luxuries."  And  with  that  he  stretched  a  poncho 
on  the  hard  boards  of  the  veranda,  where,  while 
just  a  few  feet  from  him  the  three  beds  and  white 

246 


A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

mosquito  nets  gleamed  invitingly,  he  tossed  and 
turned.  Besides  being  a  silly  spectacle,  the  sight 
of  an  old  gentleman  lying  wide  awake  on  his 
shoulder-blades  was  disturbing,  and  as  the  hours 
dragged  on  we  repeatedly  offered  him  our  ham- 
mocks. But  he  fretfully  persisted  in  his  deter- 
mination to  be  uncomfortable.  And  he  was. 
The  feelings  of  his  unhappy  staff,  several  of  whom 
were  officers  of  the  regular  army,  who  had  to 
follow  the  example  of  their  chief,  were  toward 
morning  hardly  loyal.  Later,  at  the  very  mo- 
ment the  army  moved  up  to  the  battle  of  San 
Juan  this  same  major-general  was  relieved  of 
his  command  on  account  of  illness.  Had  he 
sensibly  taken  care  of  himself,  when  the  moment 
came  when  he  was  needed,  he  would  have  been 
able  to  better  serve  his  brigade  and  his  country. 
In  contrast  to  this  pose  is  the  conduct  of  the 
veteran  hunter,  or  old  soldier.  When  he  gets  into 
camp  his  first  thought,  after  he  has  cared  for  his 
horse,  is  for  his  own  comfort.  He  does  not  wolf 
down  a  cold  supper  and  then  spread  his  blanket 
wherever  he  happens  to  be  standing.  He  knows 
that,  especially  at  night,  it  is  unfair  to  ask  his 
stomach  to  digest  cold  rations.  He  knows  that 
the  warmth  of  his  body  is  needed  to  help  him  to 
sleep  soundly,  not  to  fight  chunks  of  canned 

247 


A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

meat.  So,  no  matter  how  sleepy  he  may  be,  he 
takes  the  time  to  build  a  fire  and  boil  a  cup  of 
tea  or  coffee.  Its  warmth  aids  digestion  and  saves 
his  stomach  from  working  overtime.  Nor  will  he 
act  on  the  theory  that  he  is  "so  tired  he  can  sleep 
anywhere."  For  a  few  hours  the  man  who  does 
that  may  sleep  the  sleep  of  exhaustion.  But  be- 
fore day  breaks  he  will  feel  under  him  the  roots 
and  stones,  and  when  he  awakes  he  is  stiff,  sore, 
and  unrefreshed.  Ten  minutes  spent  in  digging 
holes  for  hips  and  shoulder-blades,  in  collecting 
grass  and  branches  to  spread  beneath  his  blanket, 
and  leaves  to  stuff  in  his  boots  for  a  pillow,  will 
give  him  a  whole  night  of  comfort  and  start  him 
well  and  fit  on  the  next  day's  tramp.  If  you 
have  watched  an  old  sergeant,  one  of  the  Indian 
fighters,  of  which  there  are  now  too  few  left  in  the 
army,  when  he  goes  into  camp,  you  will  see  him 
build  a  bunk  and  possibly  a  shelter  of  boughs  just 
as  though  for  the  rest  of  his  life  he  intended  to 
dwell  in  that  particular  spot.  Down  in  the  Garcia 
campaign  along  the  Rio  Grande  I  said  to  one  of 
them:  "Why  do  you  go  to  all  that  trouble  ?  We 
break  camp  at  daybreak."  He  said :  "  Do  we  ? 
Well,  maybe  you  know  that,  and  maybe  the  cap- 
tain knows  that,  but  /  don't  know  it.  And  so  long 
as  I  don't  know  it,  I  am  going  to  be  just  as  snug 

248 


A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

as  though  I  was  halted  here  for  a  month."  In 
camping,  that  was  one  of  my  first  and  best 
lessons — to  make  your  surroundings  healthy  and 
comfortable.  The  temptation  always  is  to  say, 
"Oh,  it  is  for  only  one  night,  and  I  am  too 
tired."  The  next  day  you  say  the  same  thing, 
"We'll  move  to-morrow.  What's  the  use  ?"  But 
the  fishing  or  shooting  around  the  camp  proves 
good,  or  it  comes  on  to  storm,  and  for  maybe  a 
week  you  do  not  move,  and  for  a  week  you  suf- 
fer discomforts.  An  hour  of  work  put  in  at  the 
beginning  would  have  turned  it  into  a  week  of 
ease. 

When  there  is  transport  of  even  one  pack-horse, 
one  of  the  best  helps  toward  making  camp  quickly 
is  a  combination  of  panniers  and  bed  used  for 
many  years  by  E.  F.  Knight,  the  Times  war  corre- 
spondent, who  lost  an  arm  at  Gras  Pan.  It  con- 
sists of  two  leather  trunks,  which  by  day  carry 
your  belongings  slung  on  either  side  of  the 
pack-animal,  and  by  night  act  as  uprights  for 
your  bed.  The  bed  is  made  of  canvas  stretched 
on  two  poles  which  rest  on  the  two  trunks.  For 
travelling  in  upper  India  this  arrangement  is 
used  almost  universally.  Mr.  Knight  obtained 
his  during  the  Chitral  campaign,  and  since  then 
has  used  it  in  every  war.  He  had  it  with  Ku- 

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A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

roki's  army  during  this  last   campaign   in   Man- 
churia.1 

A  more  compact  form  of  valise  and  bed  com- 
bined is  the  "carry-all,"  or  any  of  the  many  makes 
of  sleeping-bags,  which  during  the  day  carry  the 
kit  and  at  night  when  spread  upon  the  ground 
serve  for  a  bed.  The  one  once  most  used  by  Eng- 
lishmen was  Lord  Wolseley's  "valise  and  sleep- 
ing-bag." It  was  complicated  by  a  number  of 
strings,  and  required  as  much  lacing  as  a  dozen 
pairs  of  boots.  It  has  been  greatly  improved 
by  a  new  sleeping-bag  with  straps,  and  flaps  that 
tuck  in  at  the  ends.  But  the  obvious  disadvan- 
tage of  all  sleeping-bags  is  that  in  rain  and  mud 

1  The  top  of  the  trunk  is  made  of  a  single  piece  of  leather  with  a 
rim  that  falls  over  the  mouth  of  the  trunk  and  protects  the  contents 
from  rain.  The  two  iron  rings  by  which  each  box  is  slung  across 
the  padded  back  of  the  pack-horse  are  fastened  by  rivetted  straps  to 
the  rear  top  line  of  each  trunk.  On  both  ends  of  each  trunk  near  the 
top  and  back  are  two  iron  sockets.  In  these  fit  the  staples  that  hold  the 
poles  for  the  bed.  The  staples  are  made  of  iron  in  the  shape  of  the 
numeral  9,  the  poles  passing  through  the  circle  of  the  9.  The  bed 
should  be  four  feet  long  three  feet  wide,  of  heavy  canvas,  strengthened 
by  leather  straps.  At  both  ends  are  two  buckles  which  connect  with 
straps  on  the  top  of  each  trunk.  Along  one  side  of  the  canvas  is  a 
pocket  running  its  length  and  open  at  both  ends.  Through  this  one 
of  the  poles  passes  and  the  other  through  a  series  of  straps  that  ex- 
tend on  the  opposite  side.  These  straps  can  be  shortened  or  tight- 
ened to  allow  a  certain  "give"  to  the  canvas,  which  the  ordinary 
stretcher-bed  does  not  permit.  The  advantage  of  this  arrangement 
is  in  the  fact  that  it  can  be  quickly  put  together  and  that  it  keeps  the 
sleeper  clear  of  the  ground  and  safeguards  him  from  colds  and 
malaria. 

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A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

you  are  virtually  lying  on  the  hard  ground,  at  the 
mercy  of  tarantula  and  fever. 

The  carry-all  is,  nevertheless,  to  my  mind,  the 
most  nearly  perfect  way  in  which  to  pack  a  kit. 
I  have  tried  the  trunk,  valise,  and  sleeping-bag, 
and  vastly  prefer  it  to  them  all.  My  carry-all 
differs  only  from  the  sleeping-bag  in  that,  instead 
of  lining  it  so  that  it  may  be  used  as  a  bed,  I  carry 
in  its  pocket  a  folding  cot.  By  omitting  the  extra 
lining  for  the  bed,  I  save  almost  the  weight  of  the 
cot.  The  folding  cot  I  pack  is  the  Gold  Medal 
Bed,  made  in  this  country,  but  which  you  can 
purchase  almost  anywhere.  I  once  carried  one 
from  Chicago  to  Cape  Town  to  find  on  arriving 
I  could  buy  the  bed  there  at  exactly  the  same 
price  I  had  paid  for  it  in  America.  I  also  found 
them  in  Tokio,  where  imitations  of  them  were 
being  made  by  the  ingenious  and  disingenuous 
Japanese.  They  are  light  in  weight,  strong,  and 
comfortable,  and  are  undoubtedly  the  best  camp- 
bed  made.  When  at  your  elevation  of  six  inches 
above  the  ground  you  look  down  from  one  of 
them  upon  a  comrade  in  a  sleeping-bag  with 
rivulets  of  rain  and  a  tide  of  muddy  water  rising 
above  him,  your  satisfaction,  as  you  fall  asleep,  is 
worth  the  weight  of  the  bed  in  gold. 

My  carry-all  is  of  canvas  with  a  back  of  water- 
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A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

proof.  It  is  made  up  of  three  strips  six  and  c 
half  feet  long.  The  two  outer  strips  are  each  two 
feet  three  inches  wide,  the  middle  strip  four  feet. 
At  one  end  of  the  middle  strip  is  a  deep  pocket  of 
heavy  canvas  with  a  flap  that  can  be  fastened 
by  two  straps.  When  the  kit  has  been  packed 
in  this  pocket,  the  two  side  strips  are  folded  over  it 
and  the  middle  strip  and  the  whole  is  rolled  up 
and  buckled  by  two  heavy  straps  on  the  water- 
proof side.  It  is  impossible  for  any  article  to  fall 
out  or  for  the  rain  to  soak  in.  I  have  a  smaller 
carry-all  made  on  the  same  plan,  but  on  a  tiny 
scale,  in  which  to  carry  small  articles  and  a  change 
of  clothing.  It  goes  into  the  pocket  after  the  bed, 
chair,  and  the  heavier  articles  are  packed  away. 
When  the  bag  is  rolled  up  they  are  on  the  outside 
of  and  form  a  protection  to  the  articles  of  lighter 
weight. 

The  only  objection  to  the  carry-all  is  that  it  is 
an  awkward  bundle  to  pack.  It  is  difficult  to 
balance  it  on  the  back  of  an  animal,  but  when 
you  are  taking  a  tent  with  you  or  carrying  your 
provisions,  it  can  be  slung  on  one  side  of  the  pack 
saddle  to  offset  their  weight  on  the  other. 

I  use  the  carry-all  when  I  am  travelling  "heavy." 
By  that  I  mean  when  it  is  possible  to  obtain  a 
pack-animal  or  cart.  When  travelling  light  and 

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A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

bivouacking  by  night  without  a  pack-horse,  bed, 
or  tent,  I  use  the  saddle-bags,  already  described. 
These  can  be  slung  over  the  back  of  the  horse  you 
ride,  or  if  you  walk,  carried  over  your  shoulder.  I 
carried  them  in  this  latter  way  in  Greece,  in  the 
Transvaal,  and  Cuba  during  the  rebellion,  and 
later  with  our  own  army. 

The  list  of  articles  I  find  most  useful  when 
travelling  where  it  is  possible  to  obtain  transport, 
or,  as  we  may  call  it,  travelling  heavy,  are  the 
following: 

A  tent,  seven  by  ten  feet,  with  fly,  jointed  poles, 
tent-pins,  a  heavy  mallet.  I  recommend  a  tent 
open  at  both  ends  with  a  window  cut  in  one  end. 
The  window,  when  that  end  is  laced  and  the  other 
open,  furnishes  a  draught  of  air.  The  window 
should  be  covered  with  a  flap  which,  in  case 
of  rain,  can  be  tied  down  over  it  with  tapes.  A 
great  convenience  in  a  tent  is  a  pocket  sewn  in- 
side of  each  wall,  for  boots,  books,  and  such  small 
articles.  The  pocket  should  not  be  filled  with 
anything  so  heavy  as  to  cause  the  walls  to  sag. 
Another  convenience  with  a  tent  is  a  leather  strap 
stretched  from  pole  to  pole,  upon  which  to  hang 
clothes,  and  another  is  a  strap  to  be  buckled 
around  the  front  tent-pole,  and  which  is  studded 
with  projecting  hooks  for  your  lantern,  water-bot- 

253 


A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

tie,  and  field-glasses.  This  latter  can  be  bought 
ready-made  at  any  military  outfitter's. 

Many  men  object  to  the  wooden  tent-pin  on 
account  of  its  tendency  to  split,  and  carry  pins 
made  of  iron.  With  these,  an  inch  below  the  head 
of  the  pin  is  a  projecting  barb  which  holds  the 
tent  rope.  When  the  pin  is  being  driven  in,  the 
barb  is  out  of  reach  of  the  mallet.  Any  black- 
smith can  beat  out  such  pins,  and  if  you  can 
afford  the  extra  weight,  they  are  better  than  those 
of  ash.  Also,  if  you  can  afford  the  weight,  it  is 
well  to  carry  a  strip  of  water-proof  or  oilcloth 
for  the  floor  of  the  tent  to  keep  out  dampness. 
All  these  things  appertaining  to  the  tent  should 
be  rolled  up  in  it,  and  the  tent  itself  carried  in  a. 
light-weight  receptacle,  with  a  running  noose  like 
a  sailor's  kit-bag. 

The  carry-all  has  already  been  described.  Of 
its  contents,  I  consider  first  in  importance  the 
folding  bed. 

And  second  in  importance  I  would  place  a 
folding  chair.  Many  men  scoff  at  a  chair  as  a 
cumbersome  luxury.  But  after  a  hard  day  on 
foot  or  in  the  saddle,  when  you  sit  on  the  ground 
with  your  back  to  a  rock  and  your  hands  locked 
across  your  knees  to  keep  yourself  from  sliding,  or 
on  a  box  with  no  rest  for  your  spinal  column,  you 

254 


A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

begin  to  think  a  chair  is  not  a  luxury,  but  a  neces- 
sity. During  the  Cuban  campaign,  for  a  time  I 
was  a  member  of  General  Sumner's  mess.  The 
general  owned  a  folding  chair,  and  whenever  his 
back  was  turned  every  one  would  make  a  rush  to 
get  into  it.  One  time  we  were  discussing  what,  in 
the  light  of  our  experience  of  that  campaign,  we 
would  take  with  us  on  our  next,  and  all  agreed, 
Colonel  Howze,  Captain  Andrews,  and  Major 
Harmon,  that  if  one  could  only  take  one  article 
it  would  be  a  chair.  I  carried  one  in  Manchuria, 
but  it  was  of  no  use  to  me,  as  the  other  correspond- 
ents occupied  it,  relieving  each  other  like  sentries 
on  guard  duty.  I  had  to  pin  a  sign  on  it,  reading, 
"Don't  sit  on  me,"  but  no  one  ever  saw  the  sign. 
Once,  in  order  to  rest  in  my  own  chair,  I  weakly 
established  a  precedent  by  giving  George  Lynch 
a  cigar  to  allow  me  to  sit  down  (on  that  march 
there  was  a  mess  contractor  who  supplied  us 
even  with  cigars,  and  occasionally  with  food), 
and  after  that,  whenever  a  man  wanted  to  smoke, 
he  would  commandeer  my  chair,  and  unless  bribed 
refuse  to  budge.  This  seems  to  argue  the  popu- 
larity of  the  contractor's  cigars  rather  than  that 
of  the  chair,  but,  nevertheless,  I  submit  that  on  a 
campaign  the  article  second  in  importance  for  rest, 
comfort,  and  content  is  a  chair.  The  best  I  know 

255 


A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

is  one  invented  by  Major  Elliott  of  the  British 
army.  I  have  an  Elliott  chair  that  I  have  used 
four  years,  not  only  when  camping  out,  but  in 
my  writing-room  at  home.  It  is  an  arm-chair, 
and  is  as  comfortable  as  any  made.  The  objec- 
tions to  it  are  its  weight,  that  it  packs  bulkily, 
and  takes  down  into  too  many  pieces.  Even  with 
these  disadvantages  it  is  the  best  chair.  It  can  be 
purchased  at  the  Army  and  Navy  and  Anglo- 
Indian  stores  in  London.  A  chair  of  lighter 
weight  and  one-fourth  the  bulk  is  the  Willisden 
chair,  of  green  canvas  and  thin  iron  supports. 
It  breaks  in  only  two  pieces,  and  is  very  comfort- 
able. 

Sir  Harry  Johnson,  in  his  advice  to  explorers, 
makes  a  great  point  of  their  packing  a  chair. 
But  he  recommends  one  known  as  the  "Welling- 
ton," which  is  a  cane-bottomed  affair,  heavy  and 
cumbersome.  Dr.  Harford,  the  instructor  in  out- 
fit for  the  Royal  Geographical  Society,  recom- 
mends a  steamer-chair,  because  it  can  be  used  on 
shipboard  and  "can  be  easily  carried  afterward." 
If  there  be  anything  less  easy  to  carry  than  a  deck- 
chair  I  have  not  met  it.  One  might  as  soon 
think  of  packing  a  folding  step-ladder.  But  if 
he  has  the  transport,  the  man  who  packs  any 
reasonably  light  folding  chair  will  not  regret  it. 

256 


A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

As  a  rule,  a  cooking  kit  is  built  like  every  other 
cooking  kit  in  that  the  utensils  for  cooking  are 
carried  in  the  same  pot  that  is  used  for  boiling 
the  water,  and  the  top  of  the  pot  turns  itself  into 
a  frying-pan.  For  eight  years  I  always  have  used 
the  same  kind  of  cooking  kit,  so  I  cannot  speak  of 
others  with  knowledge;  but  I  have  always  looked 
with  envious  eyes  at  the  Preston  cooking  kit  and 
water-bottle.  Why  it  has  not  already  been 
adopted  by  every  army  I  do  not  understand,  for 
in  no  army  have  I  seen  a  kit  as  compact  or  as 
light,  or  one  that  combines  as  many  useful  articles 
and  takes  up  as  little  room.  It  is  the  invention 
of  Captain  Guy  H.  Preston,  Thirteenth  Cavalry, 
and  can  be  purchased  at  any  military  outfitter's. 

The  cooking  kit  I  carry  is,  or  was,  in  use  in 
the  German  army.  It  is  made  of  aluminum, 
weighs  about  as  much  as  a  cigarette-case,  and 
takes  up  as  little  room  as  would  a  high  hat.  It  is 
a  frying-pan  and  coffee-pot  combined.  From  the 
Germans  it  has  been  borrowed  by  the  Japanese, 
and  one  smaller  than  mine,  but  of  the  same  pat- 
tern, is  part  of  the  equipment  of  each  Japanese 
soldier.  On  a  day's  march  there  are  three  things 
a  man  must  carry:  his  water-bottle,  his  food, 
which,  with  the  soldier,  is  generally  carried  in  a 
haversack,  and  his  cooking  kit.  Preston  has 

257 


A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

succeeded  most  ingeniously  in  combining  the 
water-bottle  and  the  cooking  kit,  and  I  believe 
by  cutting  his  water-bottle  in  half,  he  can  make 
room  in  his  coffee-pot  for  the  food.  If  he  will  do 
this,  he  will  solve  the  problem  of  carrying  water, 
food,  and  the  utensils  for  cooking  the  food  and  for 
boiling  the  water  in  one  receptacle,  which  can  be 
carried  from  the  shoulder  by  a  single  strap.  The 
alteration  I  have  made  for  my  own  use  in  Captain 
Preston's  water-bottle  enables  me  to  carry  in  the 
coffee-pot  one  day's  rations  of  bacon,  coffee,  and 
biscuit. 

In  Tokio,  before  leaving  for  Manchuria,  Gen- 
eral Fukushima  asked  me  to  bring  my  entire  out- 
fit to  the  office  of  the  General  Staff.  I  spread  it 
out  on  the  floor,  and  with  unerring  accuracy  he 
selected  from  it  the  three  articles  of  greatest  value. 
They  were  the  Gold  Medal  cot,  the  Elliott  chair, 
and  Preston's  water-bottle.  He  asked  if  he  could 
borrow  these,  and,  understanding  that  he  wanted 
to  copy  them  for  his  own  use,  and  supposing  that 
if  he  used  them,  he  would,  of  course,  make  some 
restitution  to  the  officers  who  had  invented  them, 
I  foolishly  loaned  them  to  him.  Later,  he  issued 
them  in  numbers  to  the  General  Staff.  As  I  felt, 
in  a  manner,  responsible,  I  wrote  to  the  Secretary 
of  War,  saying  I  was  sure  the  Japanese  army 

258 


The  component  parts  of  the  Preston  cooking  kit 


German  Army  cooking  kit  after  use  in  five  campaigns 


All  of  these  articles  pack  inside  the  kettle 


A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

did  not  wish  to  benefit  by  these  inventions  without 
making  some  acknowledgment  or  return  to  the 
inventors.  But  the  Japanese  War  Office  could 
not  see  the  point  I  tried  to  make,  and  the  General 
Staff  wrote  a  letter  in  reply  asking  why  I  had  not 
directed  my  communication  to  General  Fuku- 
shima,  as  it  was  not  the  Secretary  of  War,  but  he, 
who  had  taken  the  articles.  The  fact  that  they 
were  being  issued  without  any  return  being  made, 
did  not  interest  them.  They  passed  cheerfully 
over  the  fact  that  the  articles  had  been  stolen,  and 
were  indignant,  not  because  I  had  accused  a 
Japanese  general  of  pilfering,  but  because  I  had 
accused  the  wrong  general.  The  letter  was  so 
insolent  that  I  went  to  the  General  Staff  Office 
and  explained  that  the  officer  who  wrote  it,  must 
withdraw  it,  and  apologize  for  it.  Both  of  which 
things  he  did.  In  case  the  gentlemen  whose  in- 
ventions were  "borrowed"  might,  if  they  wished, 
take  further  steps  in  the  matter,  I  sent  the  docu- 
ments in  the  case,  with  the  exception  of  the  letter 
which  was  withdrawn,  to  the  chief  of  the  General 
Staff  in  the  United  States  and  in  England. 

In  importance  after  the  bed,  cooking  kit,  and 
chair,  I  would  place  these  articles: 

Two  collapsible  water-buckets  of  rubber  or  canvas. 
Two  collapsible  brass  lanterns,  with  extra  isinglass  sides. 

259 


A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

Two  boxes  of  sick-room  candles. 

One  dozen  boxes  of  safety  matches. 

One  axe.  The  best  I  have  seen  is  the  Marble  Safety 
Axe,  made  at  Gladstone,  Mich.  You  can  carry  it  in 
your  hip-pocket,  and  you  can  cut  down  a  tree  with  it. 

One  medicine  case  containing  quinine,  calomel,  and 
Sun  Cholera  Mixture  in  tablets. 

Toilet-case  for  razors,  tooth-powder,  brushes,  and 
paper. 

Folding  bath-tub  of  rubber  in  rubber  case.  These 
are  manufactured  to  fold  into  a  space  little  larger  than 
a  cigar-box. 

Two  towels  old,  and  soft. 

Three  cakes  of  soap. 

One  Jaeger  blanket. 

One  mosquito  head-bag. 

One  extra  pair  of  shoes,  old  and  comfortable. 

One  extra  pair  of  riding-breeches. 

One  extra  pair  of  gaiters.  The  former  regulation 
army  gaiter  of  canvas,  laced,  rolls  up  in  a  small  compass 
and  weighs  but  little. 

One  flannel  shirt.     Gray  least  shows  the  dust. 

Two  pairs  of  drawers.  For  riding,  the  best  are  those 
of  silk. 

Two  undershirts,  balbriggan  or  woollen. 

Three  pairs  of  woollen  socks. 

Two  linen  handkerchiefs,  large  enough,  if  needed,  to 
tie  around  the  throat  and  protect  the  back  of  the  neck. 

One  pair  of  pajamas,  woollen,  not  linen. 

One  housewife. 

Two  briarwood  pipes. 

Six  bags  of  smoking  tobacco;  Durham  or  Seal  of 
North  Carolina  pack  easily. 

One  pad  of  writing  paper. 
260 


A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

One  fountain  pen,  self-filling. 

One  bottle  of  ink,  with  screw  top,  held  tight  by  a 
spring. 

One  dozen  linen  envelopes. 

Stamps,  wrapped  in  oil-silk  with  mucilage  side  next 
to  the  silk. 

One  stick  sealing-wax.  In  tropical  countries  muci- 
lage on  the  flap  of  envelopes  sticks  to  everything  except 
the  envelope. 

One  dozen  elastic  bands  of  the  largest  size.  In  pack- 
ing they  help  to  compress  articles  like  clothing  into  the 
smallest  possible  compass  and  in  many  other  ways  will 
be  found  very  useful. 

One  pack  of  playing-cards. 

Books. 

One  revolver  and  six  cartridges. 

The  reason  for  most  of  these  articles  is  obvious. 
Some  of  them  may  need  a  word  of  recommenda- 
tion. I  place  the  water-buckets  first  in  the  list  for 
the  reason  that  I  have  found  them  one  of  my  most 
valuable  assets.  With  one,  as  soon  as  you  halt, 
instead  of  waiting  for  your  turn  at  the  well  or 
water-hole,  you  can  carry  water  to  your  horse,  and 
one  of  them  once  filled  and  set  in  the  shelter  of 
the  tent,  later  saves  you  many  steps.  It  also  can 
be  used  as  a  nose-bag,  and  to  carry  fodder.  I 
recommend  the  brass  folding  lantern,  because 
those  I  have  tried  of  tin  or  aluminum  ha^e  in- 
variably broken.  A  lantern  is  an  absolute  neces- 
sity. When  before  daylight  you  break  camp,  or 

261 


A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

hurry  out  in  a  wind  storm  to  struggle  with  flying 
tent-pegs,  or  when  at  night  you  wish  to  read  or 
play  cards,  a  lantern  with  a  stout  frame  and  steady 
light  is  indispensable.  The  original  cost  of  the 
sick-room  candles  is  more  than  that  of  ordinary 
candles,  but  they  burn  longer,  are  brighter,  and 
take  up  much  less  room.  To  protect  them  and 
the  matches  from  dampness,  or  the  sun,  it  is  well 
to  carry  them  in  a  rubber  sponge-bag.  Any 
one  who  has  forgotten  to  pack  a  towel  will  not 
need  to  be  advised  to  take  two.  An  old  sergeant 
of  Troop  G,  Third  Cavalry,  once  told  me  that  if 
he  had  to  throw  away  everything  he  carried  in 
his  roll  but  one  article,  he  would  save  his  towel. 
And  he  was  not  a  particularly  fastidious  sergeant 
either,  but  he  preferred  a  damp  towel  in  his  roll 
to  damp  clothes  on  his  back.  Every  man  knows 
the  dreary  halts  in  camp  when  the  rain  pours  out- 
side, or  the  regiment  is  held  in  reserve.  For 
times  like  these  a  pack  of  cards  or  a  book  is  worth 
carrying,  even  if  it  weighs  as  much  as  the  plates 
from  which  it  was  printed.  At  present  it  is  easy 
to  obtain  all  of  the  modern  classics  in  volumes 
small  enough  to  go  into  the  coat-pocket.  In 
Japan,  before  starting  for  China,  we  divided  up 
among  the  correspondents  Thomas  Nelson  &  Sons' 
and  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.'s  pocket  editions  of 

262 


A  War  Correspondent's  Kit 

Dickens,  Thackeray,  and  Lever,  and  as  most  of 
our  time  in  Manchuria  was  spent  locked  up  in 
compounds,  they  proved  a  great  blessing. 

In  the  list  I  have  included  a  revolver,  following 
out  the  old  saying  that  "You  may  not  need  it  for 
a  long  time,  but  when  you  do  need  it,  you  want  it 
damned  quick."  Except  to  impress  guides  and 
mule-drivers,  it  is  not  an  essential  article.  In  six 
campaigns  I  have  carried  one,  and  never  used  it, 
nor  needed  it  but  once,  and  then  while  I  was  dodg- 
ing behind  the  foremast  it  lay  under  tons  of  lug- 
gage in  the  hold.  The  number  of  cartridges  I 
have  limited  to  six,  on  the  theory  that  if  in  six 
shots  you  haven't  hit  the  other  fellow,  he  will  have 
hit  you,  and  you  will  not  require  another  six. 

This,  I  think,  completes  the  list  of  articles  that 
on  different  expeditions  I  either  have  found  of 
use,  or  have  seen  render  good  service  to  some  one 
else.  But  the  really  wise  man  will  pack  none  of 
the  things  enumerated  in  this  article.  For  the 
larger  his  kit,  the  less  benefit  he  will  have  of  it. 
It  will  all  be  taken  from  him.  And  accordingly 
my  final  advice  is  to  go  forth  empty-handed,  naked 
and  unashamed,  and  borrow  from  your  friends. 
I  have  never  tried  that  method  of  collecting  an 
outfit,  but  I  have  seen  never  it  fail,  and  of  all 
travellers  the  man  who  borrows  is  the  wisest. 

263 


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Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


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